The CHARIOTEER 13 ANTONIS SAMARAKIS

The CH AR IOT EER
An Annual Review of Modern Greek Culture
NUMBER
13
1971
An Anthology
of ANTONIS SAMARAKIS
Short Stories from
WANTED : HOPE
I REFUSE
THE JUNGLE
Selections from
DANGER SIGNAL
Introduced by
EDWIN JAHIEL
Published by
Parnassos, Greek Cultural Society of New York
S;.oo
IN MEMORIA M
While this issue was at the printer's, the sad news
arrived of the death, on September 20th, of George
Seferis, one of the greatest poets of our time. He was
the only Greek to receive the highest, formal, worldwide recognition, the Nobel Prize awarded to him in
1963. For Greece, the suffering heir of a priceless, cultural legacy, the works of Seferis are unquestionably
the quintessential voice of her tragic modern conscience.
His death is not only a loss to his nation, but also, and
far more, a loss to modern poetry. Although we can
no longer expect to hea1· further from his genius, the
value of his works will increase for us and for all the
world in the days to come.
In expression of our deep sorrow for his passing, we
dedicate this issue to the memory of George Seferis.
A. D.
THE CHARIOTEER
AN ANNUAL REVIEW OF. MODERN GREEK CULTURE
Published by Parnassos, Greek Cultural Society ofNew York
NUMBER 13
1971
EDITORIAL STAFF
Executive Editors Andonis Decavalles Bebe Spanos
Managing Editor Katherine Hortis
Editor in Greece Kimon Friar
Art Editor Nicholas Ikaris
Copy Editor Belle Rothberg
Business Manager James W. Manousos
HONORARY BOARD
C. Maurice Bowra Warden of Wadham College, Oxford
Lawrence Durrell poet, author of The Alexandria Quartet
Richmond Lattimore Professor of Classics, Bryn Mawr College
John Mavrogordato Retired Professor of Byzantine and Modern
Greek, Exeter College, Oxford
THE CHARIOTEER is published by PARNASSOS, GREEK CULTURAL
SOCIETY OF NEW YORK, a non-profit organization under the laws of
the State of New York. Editorial and subscription address: Box 2928, Grand
Central Station, New York, N.Y. 10017. 2-Number subscription $5.00; 4Number subscription $10.00. Copyright © 1971, by Parnassos. All rights reserved. Printed in U.S.A. by H. Gantt, New York, N.Y. 10040. - THE
CHARIOTEER solicits essays on and English translations from works of
modern Greek writers. Translations should be accompanied by a copy of
the original Greek text. Manuscripts will not be returned unless accompanied by stamped self-addressed envelopes. No responsibility can be assumed
for theft, loss or damage.
EDITORIAL
Like many colleagues who preceded him and many who are his
contemporaries (including Andonis Decavalles, our distinguished
poet and Co-Executive Editor), Samarakis became a writer after
studying law. A legal practicality informs his use of circumstantial details, that pinpoint life as it is. Hence, perhaps, his reliance, according to Professor J ahiel, upon cinematic techniques.
The compelling force of meaning in Samarakis' works comes
from his concern for life as it is not, for life as his characters
wish it were. They keep trying to act according to that as-if
world. Tragedy results when they are suddenly trapped into
recognizing that it does exist.
The works of Samarakis thus remind us that fiction opens
countless doors for our understanding, not only into the allied
arts-painting or music, architecture or cinema-but also into the
allied sciences. That play of consciousness between the exterior
and interior vision which Samarakis presents cinematically,
invites us to read him under the light of modern psychology.
Seen through the spectrum of, say, Jungian theory, for instance,
his works may assume new dimensions.
"Our consciousness," according to the psychology of Carl Jung,
"is a very recent acquisition of nature," and has evolved through
myriad, infinitesimal phases. Groping our way out of primordial
darkness, we have gradually developed the range of our awareness and so have arrived at some semblance of what is generally
called "civilization." Whether it is an actual state of being or
merely a concept about being, civilization in each of us, as in a
society, can be measured by the degree and variety of our
awareness.
Awareness feeds primarily on the senses. Touch and taste
and sight and smell and hearing inform us about the world
that surrounds us, objects and their character and their atmosphere, so-called "reality." Hardly does such information cross
the threshold of our perception than it is "somehow translated,"
according to Jung, "from the realms of reality into that of the
mind." There, that information becomes "pychic events, whose
ultimate nature is unknowable."
Bebe Spanos: Editorial
5
The agency, our senses, which informs our awareness by
carrying on the traffic between our mind and that reality, is
not exclusive. Another force operates independently of them. It
causes other events to cross the threshold of our perception
without reference to our senses. Such events glide into our mind
like shadows. Silent and invisible to our rational thought, they
find a necessary place for themselves and wait-like the assasin
or the detective in a mystery story-behind the door, as it were,
of our awareness. They wait until such a moment when circumstances in our conscious life force them inevitably to reveal their
presence if not their identity. Often, we do not realize they even
existed, or who or what they are, until long after they have
struck their blow, fulfilled their mission and vanished.
The reason why, at such a moment, in such a way, they
came and went, almost never becomes fully clear to us. Indeed,
we may spend the rest of our lives intermittently wondering
why.
The knowledge of these other events vanishes back into that
force from which they came, which operates independent of our
senses, the force which Jung calls "the unconscious." "We can
become aware of such happenings only in a moment of intuition
or by a process of profound though that leads to a later realization that they must have happened; and though we have originally ignored their emotional and vital importance it later wells
up from the unconscious as a sort of afterthought."
Sometimes, our conscious life never recovers from the shock,
late or soon, of such an "afterthought." Sometimes, it is not a
shock, not a sudden turning-on of intuitive light, but a slow and
painful process that devours our future. To such a shock or
process we tend to give names. We call it "character" or we call
it "fate" or, as the ancients said, "Character is fate."
The work of the unconscious is often accomplished through
dreams. When the agency of our senses is closed for the night,
that other force sends its message to us in the shape of symbolic
images. We may or may not remember them accurately or
completely at the time of our awaking. In our dreams these
images behave in a sequence that is incoherent to our conscious
mind. Their sequence becomes coherent only so far as we are
able to understand what they mean to our rational life.
6
THE CHARIOTEER
We can never translate them completely into rational terms
because our consciousness is still evolving; "for large areas of
the human mind are still shrouded in darkness. What we call the
'psyche' is by no means identical with our consciousness and
its contents."
More than this, however, Jung insists, our so-called dreams
are not products merely of individual experience. They are much
more portentousl y the products of a collective life, a fund, a
heritage of experience, of which each of us is but a minute
fraction. That experience began before the time of recorded
history and is an oceanic flow into who shall say what ever
after.
To Freud, a dream was valid in relating a patient's personal
past, especially his childhood, to the problems of his maturity.
Jung perceived a deeper, collective continuity between the symbolic images which occur in the individual's dreams and the
symbolic images which recur in mythology. Jung called such
recurring motifs and themes "archetypa l." He saw them as expressive of some underlying structure or pattern, of a collective
life that co-exists with out individual life.
We live, as he would say, simultaneously in two kinds or two
levels of time. We live in the allotted time of our individual life.
It is measured by the beat of our pulse, by the time-piece on
our wrist or on the kitchen wall. We also live in a primordial
time dimension. It is immesurab le and unknowable except as
dreams or myths give us meaningfu l clues to its passage.
The labyrinth of relationship that Jung discerns between the
individual and the collective life demands far more space and
knowledge than these pages can offer. Such life is, of course, as
he notes, most vividly traceable in works of art, in any product
that reflects the interplay of the producer's logic and imagination, conscious and unconscious experience.
For the readers of THE CHARIOT EER, even after a brief
and superficial look at Jung's work, his theories bristle with
meaning. If the Greek earth is swollen with the tangible vestiges
of the dreams and myths that haunted the Greeks through past
centuries, then the poems and stories and novels, the paintings
and sculpture of a contempora ry Greece are surely as rich a soil
as any Jungian explorer could ever hope to find.
Bebe Spanos: Editorial
7
The purpose of this publication is, as we have often said, to
present the literature and arts of modern Greece to the Englishspeaking world, and to hasten the arrival of modern Greek writers and artists upon the international scene. The great fact about
THE CHARIOTEER is that it makes palpable the continuity of
the Greek experience from ancient to present time. Through
centuries of foreign domination, the Greeks have cherished their
language and feeling and thought.
The purpose of THE CHARIOTEER would be profoundly
enhanced if in its pages the scientist or psychologist, philosopher
or anthropologist were to discover clues, however slender, about
that labyrinth of relationships not merely between individual and
collective life among the Greek but also of such life, conscious
and unconscious, pervading human experience at large.
BEBE SPANOS
for Parnassos and the Staff of The Charioteer
8
THE CHARIOTEER
ANTONIS SAMARAKIS
by Andonis DecavaUes
The present issue was long in preparation. In fact we first
thought of presenting Antonis Samarakis to our readers several
years ago, when he was still not as widely known, recognized, and
popular as he has become. We could have been the first to introduce him to the English-speaking world, but we lost that opportunity. His novel To Lathos (The Flaw) came out in its English
translation of Peter Mansfield and Richard Burns (Weybright
& Talley) in 1969, and has received, both in England and in this
country, the highest, most enthusiastic acclaim. This same
novel, originally published as early as 1965, received, one year
later, the Kostas Ouranis Prize of the Twelve, the Greek equivalent of the French Goncourt Prize. We wish to quote the
significant statement of the conferment:
The award of the Kostas Ouranis Prize to Antonis
Samarakis is both an act of recognition and a reward.
An inventive and very personal narrative talent is recognized and rewarded, a talent that echoes the panic and
the great moral problems that agitate the consciences
of today. This talent, within ten years, succeeded in gaining the attention of the Hellenic reading public and that
of the critics, and in becoming widely known to foreign
lands. A perfect novel, To Lathos is distinguished by
many virtues: originality, cleverness of myth, artful plot,
modern technique, an atmosphere of universality, and,
above all, the cry of the author, transmuted into art,
against the pressure exerted by totalitarian - and often
even non-totalitarian - regimes over man. This is absurd, Samarakis yells, and he depicts this with a story
charmingly absurd, thus implying that men are born to
live fraternally, friendly, humanely, and not by oppressing one another through any, whatever, organized value.
Narrative ingenuity and humaneness give Antonis Samarakis' To Lathos its deserved claim upon the prize
awarded.
For this same novel Samarakis was also awarded, in 1970,
Andonis Decavalles: Antonis Samarakis
9
the French Grand Prix de Litterature Policiere, which however
he was not given permission to go and receive in person.
There was, fortunately, still plenty of Samarakis for us to
make easily our present selection from. The short stories we
present here have gone through several editions, an unprecedented
accomplishment for a young author in Greece, and have known
immense popularity wherever they appeared, in Greece and
abroad, having been included in textbooks, radio and television
broadcasts, and turned into movies. We are thankful to Dr. Edwin
J ahiel for his excellent introductory essay, not his first piece on
the author whom he has loved and admired so much. In this
present appraisal it is hard to add to what he says, and not to be
repetitive.
Why has Samarakis been so popular, not only in his own
country, but the world over? It is easy to call him "relevant,"
applying to him that rather obsessive and vague modern label.
The term might only reduce his individual virtues, for his relevance is certainly his own. His style is his, his world is his, and
so is his message. We might quote, at this point, Dr. Jahiel's
statement, from his essay in the Books Abroad, that needs no
modification whatever:
Deep mistrust of artistic gymnastics, of gratuitous formalism, of what he and his heroes scornfully call "literature," results in utter simplicity of style, classical in its
density. in its painstaking craft, its immediate impact.
Samarakis does away with precious ornamentation, with
nineteenth century verbiage, or with crowded rhetoric
of today's "new" novel. He pares things down to the basic
issues, gets to the heart of the matter and the nitty-gritty.
One thing that one might perhaps question in this statement
is the "classical density" if that implies "economy of expression;"
for Samarakis is not always economical, at least in all respects.
Slow progress and abundant repetition in building situations,
haunting situations, are often among his strong means of expression, his tricks. Was Gertrude Stein economical, one might wander?
The fact remains that Samarakis does not make "literature."
On a certain opportunity he condemned the anti-novel fashion as
totally artificial, and he may not have been wrong. In his work,
life is life as it is, the life he has lived and seen around him, to
10
THE CHARIOTEER
which he holds an accurate mirror, the life that many of us, his
contemporaries, his friends, have lived and seen. Do I reduce his
vista to a certain country and a certain generation? Is his work
too personal, too specified? There is no doubt whatever that Samarakis did not have to go far to find his raw material. There is
a specific tangibility in him, a "first-hand" experience. His work
unquestionably reflects Greece of the last forty or fifty years,
the years of his and our lives. We have there, in a way, the stages
and phases and acts of a drama that is his personal drama and
that of his generation. One almost recognizes his characters, individually. The marvel is that Samarakis, in being so specific,
so localized, even so "personal," becomes so universal and his
voice becomes the voice of our today's honest, humane humanity.
There is plenty of "absurdity" in Samarakis but is his absurdity like the one we find in Sartre, Beckett, Beauvoir, even
Ionesco, and others? Is it an absurdity that seems rather theoretical, an absurdity by principle, literary or other? Does it begin
and end gloomily, negatively, in despair? Does it question human
nature, human predicament itself? Or is Samarakis desperately
hoping that our absurdity is curable? Isn't he full of the desperate
hope that we are only going through a nightmare that will end
when, some time, we decide to open our eyes, when we humans
become humane?
It is not without significance that Samarakis' voice comes
from Greece and the Greek reality. The entire world has certainly
suffered much in the last forty years, from the growing anxieties
of the late thirties, through the "hot" war (supposed to correct
the evils), to the cold one that has proved worse than anything.
Growing madness on all sides has crammed our lives with constant fear and anxiety. Yet a small and poor country like Greece
has experienced more than fear and anxiety. Poverty and deprivation, starvation, loss of country, of freedom, of relatives and
friends, torture, massacre, exile, and death itself have been experiences only too common to all, over there, especially in the
forties, and the postwar years have not managed to efface the
wounds. They added to them the new and more common evils.
It is the immediacy and closeness to these experiences that distinguishes Samarakis' work from that of his fellow writers in
the western world. Under the circumstances, and being so ac-
Andonis Decavalles: Antonis Samarakis
11
tively, so passionately involved in what surrounded him, and in
what he fought for, he could not afford to be abstract, theoretical,
and "literary."
In a world "full of ideologies but deprived of ideals," his idealism - for he is obviously an idealist, and this is to his credit is not abstract, nor does it belong to any specific ideology. It is
merely human and humane, for the elementary necessities of a
decent and dignified human life. Three words sum it up: bread
and peace and freedom, a "freedom of thought and freedom of
action, in action." This "freedom concerns all men, all of them
together, and each one individually." "Love of freedom should
be absolute. It bears no concessions. You cannot love freedom
and be afraid of it."
We have seen freedom growing selfish, egotistical, wild, destructive, in short, turning from a virtue to a vice, flirting with
the law of the jungle, and there have been reasons for such a
growth. But there is in Samarakis, implied everywhere in his
work, a positive belief in man's good nature, in reason, commonsense, the possibility of an agape, of a mutual love to give freedom its right direction. These beliefs or hopes distinguish
him from modern authors who have presented the absurd and
unnatural and abnormal as the natural and the normal. Samarakis is "relevant" but healthily so. He is not decadent but sorrowful and constructive. He has known plenty of suffering in his
own life, and wishes humankind to recover from its "mosaic of
agony."
The Charioteer is proud to devote its thirteenth issue to him.
His reputation and popularity have already been well established.
It is our hope that our publication will contribute to a wider and
fuller familiarity of our readers with his accomplishment.
12
THE CHARIOTEER
THE CINEMATIC WORLD OF ANTONIS SAMARAKIS
By Edwin Jahiel*
Jean Renoir, the master film director, was explaining the essential unity of his many and very different films. "One always
tells the same story," he said modestly. He might have added that
in the hands of minor craftsmen, this story can become repetitious.
In the hands of an artist, it can become a genre. Through superior talent, that story can enrich the public's consciousness and
affectivity - as in the films of Renoir. Or the writings of Samarakis.
Samarakis was born in Athens. He has a Law degree from
Athens University. He was a high official in the Greek Ministry
of Labor from 1935 to 1963. A fighter in the Underground during
the Occupation, he was arrested and condemned to death. He
travelled widely on humanitarian missions and until 1969 worked
in Africa for the United Nations. His young wife also holds a
degree in Law from Athens University.
Samarakis began to contribute to literary magazines as early
as 1932, but not until his first book, the collected short stories
Wanted: Hope in 1954 did he become an established major writer.
His reputation grew with the short novel Danger Signal (1959).
His next book, again short stories, I Refuse (1961), won the
Greek National Book Award. In 1966, his fourth book, a novel,
The Flaw, was awarded the Prize of The Twelve, which is the
Greek equivalent of the Goncourt or the Pulitzer prize. That
same year appeared his latest collection of short stories - six
new, six reprinted - The Jungle. Much of this material has gone
through several editions, has been translated, and anthologized
in textbooks in Greece and abroad. Samarakis ranks among the
best novelists of our time, according to Greek and foreign critics,
especially Scandinavian. He has only recently begun to be known
among English-speaking and French-speaking readers since the
British and American publication of The Flaw (1969). For that
novel, La Faille, in France he has just received the Grand Prix
de Litterature Policiere.
* Edwin Jahiel is Professor of French and Comparative Literature at
the University of Illinois, in Urbana, and the author of many articles on
modern Greek writers, modern drama and cinema.
Edwin Jahiel: The Cinematic World of Antonis Samarakis
13
Samarakis has achieved great critical as well as popular
acclaim by satisfying without compromise three types of judges:
the engage critics and readers, the formalists and the general
public. He has done so by telling "the same story" with remarkable consistency and concentrated persistence in purpose and in
protest. He has been writing about people at odds with the
absurdity of life: their despair is universal, but, unlike the characters of Beckett who exist in an atemporal absurd, those of
Samarakis have a strong historical identity and an immediately
recognizable social background.
They live in a country that is Greece, or like Greece, or an
unidentified place which evokes irresistibly the Hellenic atmosphere and ethos, through sparse but telling details. The time is
now, the fifties and sixties. When the story hints of the future,
the description is never "futuristic," never full of gadgets or
science fiction. It is commonplace and familiar, as in the films
of Godard, as in the movie Alphaville which is set morally in a
depressing, future world of computerized brainwashing, but which
occurs physically in the unmodified Paris of today. Alphaville
thus warns: the grim future is already here - and so does Samarakis' The Last Freedom, which is entirely contemporary and
ordinary, save for a State where all is conceived in terms of the
masses: production, initiative, with the latest Law, No. 11.113.303,
controlling one's inner life.
This is as far as Samarakis projects into time; his war
stories could be taking place today, or during World War III.
But then, subjectively, all of Samarakis' time is a kind of future,
as his main assumption throughout is the monstrous betrayal of
the past by the future. Adulthood betrays childhood, war betrays
peace, and especially the post-war period has betrayed the struggle of 1939-1945.
The author describes these betrayals in a series of manicheistic maneuvers which form his dramatic core, and with subtle
shifts of roles and of stylistic structure. Most of his characters
are not existential creatures who protest against the absurdity of
Man's Fate sub specie aeternitatis. They had thought that the
war was Purgatory; it turned out to be just another circle of
Hell. Their hopes were simple enough; they are summed up by the
protagonist of I Refuse, an ex-Partisan who is so disillusioned by
14
THE CHARIOTEER
post-war misery that he is about to kill himself: "Yes, the new
world ... different ... a world that will give to all men freedom
and peace and bread ...."
In Danger Signal, a surgeon becomes the "fiend" of the small
town of Pharsala because he is acutely conscious of rising world
tensions. He throws rocks at glass fronts behind which smug
people sit, free of the concerns and the anxiety that might prevent another holocaust. For this modern, engage Jekyll-Hyde
variant, the post-war world is "full of ideologies and stripped of
ideals" and subject to two basic fears, "the fear of war and the
fear of hunger which result in our betraying freedom, our inborn
necessity for freedom."
If these simple hopes seem naive, the millions who shared
them under various Occupations must indeed have suffered from
the greatest mass delusion in recorded history. Even the Cartesian
French had their slogan for hope : les lendemains qui chantent.
But the Greeks, more mercurial than the French, easily as hedonistic and given to song, had to cope with more destruction
and reconstruction than the richer West, so that Samarakis
speaks for them in perfectly realistic terms: peace, bread, freedom. In the context of Samarakis' special world, the neo-romantic
revolts of post-war youth, their defiant life-styles and subcultures
seem to be a luxury. There is, no doubt, a romantic element in
Samarakis, but it is purely stylistic, verbal and syntactical, and
it does not affect attitudes or ideas.
The obsession with the dashed hopes of 1939-1945 is even better summed up by the recurring term-almost untranslatablediapsefsis, the denial, the giving the lie to aspirations. How
does one counteract it? The answer given by the characters of
Samarakis is pessimistic. These people do not remain passive.
As authentic beings-even when they are not truly tragic figuresthey react, even revolt; but their revolt is personal, more symbolic than pragmatic, and it is doomed to futility. A writer will
advertise, "Wanted: Hope," in the classified section of a newspaper; in The Wall, a man symbolically shoots the wall that oppresses his poor neighbors; in At 7:15 p.m., the presence of a
child in the audience makes the speaker, a World War II veteran,
conscious of his uttering patriotic, "literary" lies, and he ends up
by shouting, "I can't! I can't!"; in War Story, the soldier's
Edwin Jahiel: The Cinematic World of Antonis Samarakis
15
sacrificial abandonment of the child (a soldier of the future)a resolution which is unusually brutal for Samarakis-is no solution, but rather an ambiguously motivated act, perhaps propitiatory, perhaps nihilistic.
In The Tree, a man who lavishes passionate care on a sapling
he found, uproots it because he has no right to it when not a
tree stands in Hiroshima: "Hiroshima is mine. . . it is ours ...
we are all guilty for Hiroshima .... " This story has curious affinities with the film Hiroshima, Mon Amour (1959), which
antedates it and which also poses the problems of conscience,
memory, and responsibility. But when does self-punishment leave
off masochism and relate to social action? In The Invention, the
retired professor who has found a chemical formula for boiling
an egg in seventeen seconds destroys the formula lest it become
a war weapon.
The first examples above are from the 1954 collection; the
last two, from the book of 1961, I Refuse. The would-be suicide
of the title story eventually says yes to life, the only positive
revolt in any short story of Samarakis. That story contains, by
the way, the only illogical ending in his works; for the hero
manages the impossible: he writes, "I refuse," on a wall, with a
ball-point pen! In the same group of stories, are the suicide in
Ideas, Inc., the meek public servant who refuses the regime's
thought-control in The Last Freedom, and the propaganda officer who goes berserk in Post Office Street.
However courageous these deaths, they are socially empty
gestures. The only one preceded by a potentially effective protest,
before a public, is that in The Last Freedom, but that death is
politically vitiated by private emotion; for the hero is a widower
who has just lost his only child. So, too, another would-be suicide,
the merchant in the amusing Fifty Kilos of Naphthalene, and
another meek public servant in The Revolution of April Eleven,
who thumbs his nose at the administration, are shown in a
humorous, personal rather than in a socio-political context. These
characters respectively renounce death and duty because they
have suddenly come in warm contact with ordinary life, much as
in Giraudoux's famous play, Intermezzo, and Daudet's much
anthologized M. le Sous-prefet aux Champs.
For most of these characters, the consciousness of larger
16
THE CHARIOTEER
social issues is ethical and not necessarily triggered by personal,
material needs. Typically, these characters are ordinary; often
they are public servants or merely faces in the crowd. We must
guess a great deal about them, for the technique of Samarakis
is more like that of the documentary film-maker than of the
orthodox writer. Samarakis depicts only those details which directly concern the situation. The speech or the stream of a character's consciousness gives no exposition, no supplementary explanations. Of another group of characters we do know that they
are in want. In these stories, the protest takes the form of solidarity. The man who shoots the wall does so out of concern for
his neighbors; the priest in The Flesh, who realizes that he is
not administering the last rites to a hungry man but is actually
feeding him, is overwhelmed with love; the rejected hero of The
Jungle merges, as it were, with Christ on the Cross ..
Whether the protagonists of Samarakis feel anxiety on a
cosmic or personal scale, they are all loners. His stories are a
veritable inventory of loneliness, a labyrinth of solitudes. As
most of his stories are very short, each making one point through
a single character at a precise moment in his life, the effect of
the collected works is of devastation, of a barren, "classical landscape with figures." Samarakis denies his solitaries even the
comfort of a tribe. In fact, it is as if they had been ousted from
their tribal units. He denies his solitaries the most elementary
consolations of companionship. At best, their past is sketchy. They
move alone, among the ruins, the stones, the buildings, or the
cold, self-centered crowd. If they are office-workers, these solitaries lack even the superficial camaraderie of fellow-employees,
partly from timidity, inability to communicate, and defeatism.
Even the soldiers in battle seem to co-exist with men in uniform
rather than share a life with comrades-in-arms - a subtle aspect
of Samarakis' strategy to destroy the myth of war.
Some of the "personal loners" are opposed, up to a point, to
the political ones; for they accept their solitude and react rather
than resist. Often they try to take refuge through a return to
childhood, but in vain. The Blond Cavalier is the extreme case.
In I Refuse, the hero chooses to commit suicide on the site where
his childhood home once stood. In The House, a man scrimps and
saves to buy back his childhood home: "Certainly he would then
Edwin Jahiel: The Cinematic World of Antonis Samarakis
17
become a different man! His childhood years would be revived.
The world within him would become simple, bathed with light."
The illusion fails him : you can't go home again. Even where
there is no conscious attempt to recapture things past, the unconscious yearning is often present, bordering on defensive regression and infantilism. It is no accident that the surgeon of
Danger Signal, in the midst of his turmoil, is reading the juvenile
fantasy by Jules Verne, The Children of Captain Grant, or that
the same character consults a specialist who prescribes Passiflorine, a mild sedative for nervous children.
The nostalgic antinomy child-adult, or the paradise-lost syndrome, plays as constant a role in Samarakis as it does in the
theatre of Jean Anouilh, but with a difference. In Anouilh, the
purity of childhood is ambiguous. It contains the seed of its future putrefaction; the little green apples all come with their
resident worms. In Samarakis' works, childhood is a state of
grace, ineffable, the only true happiness, and subject only to the
external, probably inevitable corruption by adult society. Therefore, if childhood is the object of envy, some children are the
object of pity. It is a sick child that primarily catalyzes the
shooting of the wall in the story The Wall; a child's death catalyzes the father's revolt in The Last Freedom; and, without even
tangible proof, we tend to extend our sympathy for the poor
youngster who dies the day he buys his dream bicycle in The Bicycle and we include a condemnation of society as the true killer not a passing truck, but Injustice; not blind fate, but fate blinded
by this imperfect world.
The world of Samarakis is totally male, with the exceptions
of the symbolic mother-figure (The Mother), who could be a
mourning nation or sorrowful humanity, and of the equally symbolic horse, which (in Stadium Street, New Year's Eve) ambles
through downtown Athens to the utter surprise of the crowd that
takes greater anomalies - war, the conquest of outer space but
not of peace - for granted. All other main characters are male,
men in their thirties or forties, mostly single, who are seen in
their human fragility but not at all in their manliness. They have
neither a physical nor an affective sexual identity, and their
overt sensitivity is the opposite of machismo.
To a remarkable degree, the few women who appear are so
18
THE CHARIOTEER
much in the background that a tentative explanation is necessary.
Samarakis is not, as one might infer, a misogynist, but one can
surmise that for his purposes women-however active sociallyare superfluous because they are not "warriors." The couple, for
Samarakis, and for much of Greek life, would tend to be made
up of a mature man and a younger girl. The obsession with
World War II in Samarakis' work results in depicting men in
his 1954-1961 stories as old enough to have participated in that
war or at least to have an active remembrance of it. But their
possible female partners would be too young to know, too young
to have experienced the dream and the deception; they are, therefore, not valid interlocutors to the males. Samarakis, who cuts
out anything extraneous in his tales, has ruthlessly eliminated
women. The few wives in this work consist of three or four
passing mentions. They are of no consequence. Only in The Blond
Cavalier does a wife appear - a silent, utilitarian figure, treated
by the writer with pathetic irony. In 50 Kilos of Naphthalene,
clearly the "beloved wife" mentioned in his will by the merchant
carries no weight at all, either in his decision to die or, later, in
his decision to live. Elsewhere, one wife is conveniently dead the hero of The Last Freedom is a widower - or the brides-to-be
offered to the surgeon in Danger Signal by an eager matchmaker
are dismissed as distastefully irrelevant. The notion of the couple
is unmistakably minimal and negative in the works of Samarakis.
The only "love story" - Episode - is in fact a mere vehicle for
portraying the fiance who is overwhelmed by fear of another
absurd war and who clings to love as the only certainty - probably in vain. The only substantive family unit is in A Certain
Case: a man buys gifts for his wife and five children, but they
turn to be as fictitious as the child in "Who's Afraid of Virginia
Woolf" - another bit of futile play-acting to combat solitude. By
1966, Samarakis had produced additional data about the desert
of love. Of the six new items in The Jungle, two - The Conquest
and The Knife - are concerned with love affairs. In the first,
the idealistic suitor's girl turns out to be a whore; in the second,
she almost precipitates murder through callousness.
The summa of Samarakis is in The Flaw, the brilliant novel
which Graham Greene, Koestler, Simenon and others praised, and
with whose work it has more than passing affinities. It is the
Edwin Jahiel: The Cinematic World of Antonis Samarakis
19
story of a presumably flawless, perhaps, computer-made plan
to break down an anonymous, presumed resistant to an anonymous Police State. During the journey to the Central Security
office in that country's capital, the alternating pressures of an
Interrogator "playing human" on the suspect, eventually backfire when the unprogrammed datum, the Interrogator's latent
humanity, emerges. In this novel Samarakis' concerns coalesce,
culminate, and sharply develop beyond the wunschtraum stage
of the short stories, as though Samarakis, the writer (not the
man), had said enough against dehumanization and had to enter
a new field of battle. The terrible sequence of betrayals, fears,
hunger, and loss of liberty has finally led to the inexorable outcome: the totalitarian regime. The book does not even mention
World War II. We are in the Alphaville present-future, and not,
as critics have said, in the larval, nightmarish world of Kafka.
The brave new world of Samarakis has its own logic.
Typically, The FZaw draws its strength from its complex
technique and its immediacy in depicting ordinary settings, people and language. The shock of recognition comes quickly.
Koestler's Darkness at Noon is predicated on the fathers-and-sons
dialectical struggle, Rubashov vs. Gletkin. Orwell's 1984 is predicated partly on the fear of perpetual observation. Bradbury's
Fahrenheit 541 uses not primordial fears but the intelligentsia's
horror at the symbolic burning of totemic books. The Flaw has
minimal dialectics, no man vs. machine battle, no symbolism.
Its forte is its realism. The previously futile gestures against
injustice have become positive action. The suspect joins the underground. In Danger Signal, the protesting doctor manages to infect only one person with his fears, leads him to suicide, and
loses his own sanity. His last gesture, pulling the train's emergency signal, is as ineffectual in its way as the indignant appeal
at the end of the movie The Confession (by Costa Gavras who
made Z): "Wake up, Lenin. They have gone mad!" In The Flaw,
the suspect channels his energy in professional resistance, paradoxically forced into it by the very regime which denies him
freedom. In the short stories of Samarakis, man lived in a nominal democracy where he was allowed to shout, and that he did,
but not much more. In The Flaw, not only does the hero assert
himself politically, but he has also become a full and normal man.
20
THE CHARIOTEER
For the first time there is a successful couple, joyful sex, love,
and women with significant, albeit minor, and positive roles. "I
found the unexpected company of two young girls, attractive and
bubbling with joie de vivre, extremely refreshing." "Nothing so
warms a man as the presence of a woman." Granted that this is
the Interrogator speaking, enough clues point to the fact that
the suspect would normally think so, too, especially since the
identities of both men will eventually merge into one, like the
two-in-one faces of Persona.
Lastly, The Flaw's ending, however somber, comes as the only
positive victory for humanity, a Pirandellian equation where
indifference has play-acted its way into genuine compassion, a
new, still aleatory step towards optimism, which Samarakis reinforces with two recent stories, The Window and The Apocalypse
of John. The latter title is, of course, a verbal conceit. The
apocalyptic visions of John of Patmos have been amply documented
in Samarakis' earlier work. John, the writer of art-for-art's sake
literature, accidentally comes in contact with the daily miseries
of the people. In The Window, the new Director at the Ministry
comes in contact with the desperate loneliness of people, also
accidentally. For both men this is a revelation - Apokalypsis and through John, Samarakis comes closest to giving us his credo
as a writer, including his mistrust (often stated by his characters) of "literary" forms and feelings. Here, too, is indicated
the great influence of the cinema on his writing.
Indeed, Samarakis is, par excellence, the writer who has best
absorbed and applied cinematic techniques. He rejects literary
rhetoric but adopts its cinematic equivalent. This born story-teller
tells his stories through visual effects, through prose conceived
as shots, scenes, sequences, juggling with montage, subjective and
non-linear time, as if to illustrate what Kafka said, "The strings
of the lyre of modern poets are endless strips of celluloid."
Like Hitchcock, Samarakis uses his visual imagination to
manipulate the reader through suspense and surprise, going from
the sights revealed by language to the meanings it expresses, a
special use of semiology. The Jungle, for example, opens as a
manhunt. The language quickly becomes an accelerated litany,
then a torrent of verbs; then there is a pause. In cinematic terms
we go from montage and a blur to a fixed shot, corresponding
Edwin Jahiel: The Cinematic World of Antonis Samarakis
21
to the man's flight and halt. The "film" comes into gradual
focus as the man realizes that he has escaped.
Then comes a flashback; piecemeal through a montage of
visual and affective thought- the interior monologue - both the
hero and the reader realize the true facts of the situation. Equally
cinematic is the combination of an unclear context with precise
detail: the close-up, "the jacket, the right pocket of his jacket"
which works both as a distraction for the reader and as a legitimate proof of the protagonist's concern with his own self; or the
subjective close-up, the Director's menacing finger, distorted by
the "camera-eye", which becomes a gun, a visual metaphor akin
to that in Eisenstein's October where Kerensky becomes a peacock.
These techniques are given much wider scope in The Flaw
which is entirely structured like a film, with flashbacks, flashforwards, special angles and points of view, a narrative alternating between characters, shifting from first person to third, and
including the supreme refinement, the flashback within the flashback, like a man who dreams that he is dreaming. There are
episodes worthy of Fellini (the seashore), of Orson Welles (the
fun fair), and of Hitchcock, as when the revolver described turns
out to be a game. Samarakis can be consistent visually. The
chessboard pattern in The Flaw leads to the crossword puzzle
pattern and to that of the paving stones-seen by an unmistakable
camera movement-towards which the victim rushes to his death.
The same consistency occurs in other works. In The Blond
Cavalier, the smallness of the sets (the desk, the bookcases, etc.),
is in keeping with the "childish" ambience of the story.
On the structural level, to call The Flaw a detective story is
a bit like calling Zorba an exotic novel or Conrad's works travelogues. The Flaw is a thriller, but it is also a political parable, an
allegory, and curiously enough a kind of horse-less Western. Part
of the structure of a thriller consists of a limited master-slave
relationship "on the road" -the policeman taking the prisoner
from point A to point B. Generally, this covers a short distance,
as from jail to courthouse, and makes up only a fraction of the
total structure. In the Western, on the other hand, the dominating-dominated relationship (Lucien Goldman's terms), may
constitute the entire structure: the sheriff taking the outlaw
from A to B, on a long journey, with the interaction of the
22
THE CHARIOTEER
two men and their inevitable changes near their journey's end.
In this type of Western, the trip is the message, and it ties in
with archetypal quests, travels, and gradual self-awareness as in
The Odyssey, picaresque literature, etc..
Aestheticians contend that imagistic realism is cinematic, but
that conceptual reasoning is not. Kracauer calls the cinema "the
redemption of physical reality" and opposes the material continuum of life as seen by the camera to the mental continuum of
life as thought and felt by the novel. Samarakis' stories at first
sight look like ready-made scenarios because of the stress on the
material, imagistic continuum. But a large amount of inner monologue, the mental continuum, does place the works of Samarakis
very much between literature and film, and makes his words
difficult to adapt faithfully, unless one resorts to a voice "off"
narration.
The film technique is especially powerful in many of Samarakis' open endings. He leaves us with a pictorial composition,
suspended in time, the equivalent of the freeze frame in The 400
Blows and other films; or he leaves us with a sight and sound
composition, as in The Sun Was Beating Down, where the hungry
job-seeker who has taken a few minutes off for a shave to make
himself presentable and so misses the job, looks at his freshlyshaven face in a street mirror, while the "soundtrack" accompaniment of a lottery seller - "Get your lucky ticket!" - howls with
laughter and recalls the end of the film The Treasure of Sierra
Madre.
Self-mockery is but one element in Samarakis' repertoire of
grim ironies. The earlier micro-stories have few touches of humor,
but as the average length of the short stories increases greatly
in the second collection, then shrinks back noticeably, the comic
elements are also increased and reduced proportionately. Some
of the best satire of small towns and their pompous press is in
the short novel, Danger Signal. Here again, Samarakis' simplicity
is deceptive. Behind the humor, lurks a disturbing, fawning and
unthinking respect for order, officialdom and hierarchy, and false
religiosity (cf., The Jungle), all of which denounce what is and
announce what will be.
These stories are moving and revealing because the writer's
virtuosity is backed up by dignity and integrity. Not that Sa-
Edwin Jahiel: The Cinematic World of Antonis Samarakis
23
marakis ever stresses these very terms. He seems to follow
Orwell's opinion that "if thought corrupts language, language
can also corrupt thought," and in a time that is out of joint
"dignity and integrity" have been reduced to mere figures of
speech, worn and potentially dangerous. Instead, how much better
it is to ask for peace, freedom and bread.
Comments on Samarakis' Novel THE FLAW
It gives me much satisfaction to be instrumental in bringing An-
tonis Samarakis before the English-speaking public. His novel,
The Flaw, has wheels within wheels which carry you from a
Schwejk-like start into a Kafkaesque nightmare redeemed by the
masterly ending.
Arthur Koestler
Antonis Samarakis' The Flaw is a very sophisticated first novel
by a Greek writer, which starts like "The Good Soldier Schwejk"
and by imperceptible steps turns into Kafka - a remarkable tour
de force.
Arthur Koestler
(in The Observer, London, December 21, 1969, when he named The
Flaw as one of the three Books of
the Year.)
The Flaw : a real masterpiece. A story of the psychological struggle between two secret police agents and their suspect, told with
wit, imagination, and quite outstanding technical skill.
Graham Greene
I want to congratulate Antonis Samarakis on this very fine piece
of writing. The Flaw has great psychological interest. There are
increasingly few writers who show originality and imagination. I
enjoyed The Flaw.
Agatha Christie
24
THE CHARIOTEER
Un roman extraordinaire. "La Faille" m' eblouit aussi bien par
le fond, qui m' emeut, que par une virtuosite quasi diabolique.
Georges Simeon
En son genre, "La Faille" est un chef-d' oeuvre.
lgnazio Silone
Mon plus vif interet pour "La Faille".
Andre Malraux
Samarakis est un grand ecrivain dont le talent honore son pays.
Herve Bazin,
de I' Academie Goncourt
J'ai admire 1' originalite dans la technique et la generosite humaine
dans !'intention.
Pierre-Henri Simon,
de 1'Academie Fran~aise,
"Critique Litteraire du Monde"
"La Faille" est un magnifique roman, non seulement par le talent
de conteur de Samarakis et son habilete a agencer !'action, mais
aussi par le sujet lui-meme qui eclate dans les dernieres pages et
transcende toute l'histoire . . . . Une humanite plus humaine
devrait rechercher et illustrer, come les philosophes grecs antiques, les complementarites, les harmonies, les identites. Cela suppose d'admettre des permanences reconaissables dans tous les individus. Et c'est bien en fait ce qu'entend demontrer "La Faille",
et c'est pourquoi il me plait tant.
Maurice Druon,
de 1'Academie Fran~aise
Eine virtuose Technik. Der Fehler ist die Unsicherheit des Menscherr in einem offenbar perfekten Polizeistaat. Samarakis erzahlt das psychologische Katz-und-Maus-Spiel aus vierfacher Perspektive. Samarakis setzt auf die Sprengkraft dessen, was in einem
Terrorsystem wie dem geschilderten allein frei und unkontrollierbar bleibt. Der Fehler ist letztlich ein optimistisches Buch.
Jochen Schmidt,
im Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung
Comments on Samarakis' Novel THE FLAW
25
I have read The Flaw and am delighted that the admiration of
Graham Greene and Arthur Koestler is fully covered by Samarakis' writing.
Uwe Johnson
Both psychologically and technically, Mr. Samarakis has written
a superbly entertaining and moving novel, a tribute to humanity
under regimentation and stress. It is not surprising that in his
own country, before the advent of the present regime, The Flaw
was awarded the equivalent of our Pulitzer Prize.
Kimon Friar
in Saturday Review
The Flaw is an attack on the current fascist regimes. It is both
pathetic and heartwarming. Samarakis has been switching narrators, cutting back and forth in time to fill blanks in the story,
retelling certain incidents with progressively more information,
making you change your mind over and over about what looks
so simple at first. All this technique never flaunts itself but dovetails smoothly, and without strain. The mood in The Flaw is miles
from the usual supercharged world of spy thrillers.
Raymond A. Sokolov
in The New York Times
26
THE CHARIOTEER
AN ANTHOLOGY OF ANTONIS SAMARAKIS
THE BLOND CAVALlER
translated by Edwin Jahiel
One evening last January he entered an all-night pharmacy
and bought a small box of laxative pills. He had been suffering
from a persistent constipation during the past few years. Then
he went to take the bus home.
There was a long queue at the bus stop. He waited patiently.
Finally he got in. He had to stand. A little round man with a
small potbelly. The previous November he had reached age fortyseven.
Someone near him was pushing him. After a while, a woman
got up and left, and he sat down. It was then that he found on
the seat the magazine Chtldren's World. A magazine for kids.
He had never seen it before. He had no dealings with magazines
for kids.
He glanced at the brightly-colored cover. It showed a cowboy
galloping on a white horse. It said underneath, "Starting in this
issue, 'Far West Adventure'."
The magazine came out every Saturday, according to the cover.
This was the latest issue; its pages were uncut. He had no idea
what to do with it. Though married fourteen years, he had no
children, because of an "insufficiency" of his wife's. At the
Ministry, where for eighteen whole years he had been a minor
employee, his colleagues teased him about his inability to produce
a child.
He looked around to see if he could give the magazine to a
child. But he saw only grown-ups. He would give it, he thought,
to his little nephew, his cousin's child, a boy of eleven, a real
terror. They lived near his house.
The smell in the bus was bad.
When he reached home, he went into the little room that was
exclusively his, near the dining-room. There he had a small desk
and his library - two bookshelves. Supper was not ready yet;
his wife was in the kitchen preparing macaroni with ground
beef. He went into the little room to wait for mealtime. He put
the magazine on a shelf. He opened his newspaper. His left leg
hurt him. He had rheumatism. He would have his wife rub it
The Blond Cavalier
27
down. Whenever the weather was damp, whenever he climbed
stairs, it hurt.
About a week went by. One night, after supper, he did not
feel like sleeping. He went into the little room, shut the door, and
opened a volume of the Encyclopedia.
His wife had made him some coffee and had gone to bed.
He read for about ten minutes. He got bored. He stood up,
walked around the room, lit a cigarette. Finally he decided to go
to bed. Then he saw Children's World forgotten on the shelf.
He thought he might kill some time.
At approximately twenty minutes before eleven, he picked up
the magazine. He put it down at one thirty.
He read every line from cover to cover. He read both serials,
"Far West Adventure" and "Two Years in the Jungle," continued
from the previous issue. He read the stories; the fairy tale for
the youngest children, "Autumn Mermaid"; the section with
games: he did the crossword puzzle, he answered riddles. He even
figured out the Magic Picture, which gave him a bit of trouble,
but he was stubborn and at last solved it: the answer was a
little rabbit that its mother was trying to find. He also read the
Readers' Page, where literary contributions by young readers
were published. He also read the section "Our Young Friends
Among Themselves," where the children, under various pseudonyms, wrote to each other and teased one another. Finally he
put the magazine in a desk drawer and went to bed. He lay down
beside his wife, who was sleeping on her back, her mouth
half-open.
He had a dream that night. He was a cowboy and he galloped
on a Far West plain, mounted on his white horse. While galloping, he turned over and, without waking up, was partly on his
wife. She did wake and thought at first that he was trying to
resume affectionate relations which had recently been lacking.
Seeing that he was asleep, she turned on her side and went back
to sleep.
Something happened inside him that night. Something
changed.
Each Saturday he bought Children's World. While buying
it at the newsstand, he looked around him like a thief. He had
the feeling that he was doing something illegal. That same even-
28
THE CHARIOTEER
ing, after supper, he would shut himself in the little room and
read the magazine. He had not mentioned anything to anyone.
Who could possibly understand him!
He locked up the issues in a desk drawer.
Something happened inside him. Reading Children's World,
he rediscovered the world of children. A world very different
from the world of grown-ups!
At the Ministry he no longer held his head low. Before,
whenever he saw something wrong, he said nothing, out of fear,
out of a habit of accepting everything without protest. He was
a different man now. In fact, one day, when one of the Ministry's
higher-ups, a director, called him into his office and urged him
to do something illegal - something about predating a request
that would cross his desk - he not only refused, but he also
brought his fist down so hard on the director's desk that coffee
spilled from a cup and stained some documents. The director was
speechless. He had never expected that.
His wife noticed the change in him. She noticed that he groomed
himself, that he bought two neckties, that he was better adjusted.
She worried. She suspected that there was another woman in his
life. But she was reassured by his tenderness toward her. She
thought that his old love for her had been rekindled.
Among other things, his constipation was gone .
.
One day he sent the magazine a prose poem he had written.
He called it "Autumn Thoughts." He submitted it to the Readers'
Page. He had to find a pseudonym, of course. He thought of
several and finally chose "The Blond Cavalier." He was dark himself, but ever since his childhood he had envied blond people; he
wished he had been blond.
His poem was published. What pleasure he felt! His second
poem was also. His third was rejected with the comment "Dear
young friend, you have selected a subject above your age. Wait,
grow up a little, then try again."
That's how things were when, about two and a half months
after the first night he read Children's World, he noticed in
the current issue, in the section "Our Young Friends Among
Themselves," the following announcement:
"We have decided to have an evening of music and literature.
The Blond Cavalier
29
Therefore, we invite the following friends, known or unknown,
to give us the pleasure of their presence: Carmen, Mary, Agrabeli,
The Iron Mask, Napoleon the Great, The Sorrowful Knight, The
Blond Cavalier."
There followed more pseudonyms, and at the end:
"We are expecting them all, without fail, on Friday, April 2,
at 7 p.m., 145 Victory Street, third floor.
Berenice - Queen of Sheba - The Black Pirate - Poseidon The Demon of the Waves."
Of course, he thought, the children would be upset if the Blond
Cavalier did not join them, but it could not be helped.
*
"145 Victory Street!" he shouted to the cab-driver. "Step on it!
You'll get double the meter rate!"
The speed they were going, they had two near-misses. All that
mattered was to arrive as quickly as possible. He was late. It was
seven-twenty, and the invitation was for seven.
How madly he had left the Ministry! How he had left everything there and then, documents, ink-stand, pen, open desk
drawers, the whole business, and he had run down the stairs
two by two! As he was leaving, he had bumped into the personnel
manager, who said something to the effect that he was leaving
without permission, but he paid no attention.
At his desk that day, he had been seized by a strong urge, a
very strong one, an urge that had suddenly become immense
within him. It was Friday afternoon and desks were on duty
from five to eight, but the urge made him abandon all his work
there and then.
The cab was drawing near. He had to take something. He
could not arrive empty-handed. He had to bring something. Sweets,
flowers. There was a flower shop nearby, to the right, on the
street they were passing. He stopped the cab, bought a bouquet
of roses. Red roses.
They arrived. Clutching the flowers, he rang the bell. His
heart beat fast and loud. Above, from the third floor, light came
through the windows. He could hear the sound of an accordion.
The door opened. He went in. A wooden, spiral staircase. He
climbed quickly - his rheumatism was gone.
30
THE CHARIOTEER
At the top of the stairs, two boys, one girl. Around fourteen,
fifteen. He stopped one step short of the landing.
"The Blond Cavalier," he said.
He pronounced it the way he gave his name when he introduced
himself.
"He's not coming?" asked one of the boys, the taller one.
"What? He's not coming?" asked the other boy.
"Is he ill?" asked the first boy again.
"What a pity!" said the girl. "I wanted so much to meet him."
He looked at the three children, silently .He could not say a
word.
Suddenly, with a rapid movement, he placed the flowers, the
red roses, in the hands of the girl, turned around, hurried down
the stairs, and went out. From above, from the third floor, he
could hear the accordion playing a gay melody. He went into the
dark night, his hands were empty now and his heart was empty.
Sl
THE RIVER
translated by Edwin Jahiel
The orders were clear: no swimming in the river, no trespassing within two hundred meters of it. There was no margin for
misunderstanding . Anyone who disobeyed the orders would be
court-martialled.
The major himself had read the orders to them, a few days
earlier. He called for general muster, the entire battalion, and he
read the orders. Orders from Division H.Q.! No laughing matter,
that.
For three weeks the men had been stalled along this bank of
the river. On the other bank was the enemy. The Others, as many
called them.
Three weeks without action. Surely, this situation could not
last long; for the time being, all was quiet.
On both banks of the river and a deep distance beyond them,
was a forest. A thick forest. Each force had camped inside the
woods.
According to Intelligence, the Others over there consisted of
two batallions. They attempted no attack, however - who knows
what they had in mind. Meantime, each force had posted sentries
in the woods, here and across the river, ready for any eventuality.
Three weeks! How could three weeks have gone by! In this
war that had started about two and a half years before, the men
could not recall another lull like this one.
When they had reached the river, the weather was still cold.
The last few days, it had improved. Spring at last!
The first man to sneak out to the river was a sergeant. He
sneaked out early one morning and dived in. A while later, he
crawled back to his companions, two bullets in his ribs. He lasted
only a few hours.
The following day, two soldiers went in that direction. Nobody saw them again. Some machine-gun bursts were heard then silence.
Then the Divisional orders were issued.
All the same, the river was a great temptation. The men
would hear its waters running and would yearn for it. The last
two and a half years, they had been eaten up by filth. They had
32
THE CHARIOTEER
become accustomed to doing without many pleasures. And now,
they had met this river. But the orders from Divisional H.Q....
"To hell with Divisional orders!" he said to himself grudgingly that night.
He tossed and turned and could not rest. He could hear the
river and it would not leave him in peace.
He would go the next day; he would definitely go. To hell
with Divisional orders!
The other soldiers were asleep. Sleep finally overcame him,
too. He had a dream, a nightmare. At first he saw it as it was:
a river. The river was before him and waited for him. And he,
naked on the bank, would not plunge in. As though an invisible
hand held him. Then the river transformed itself into a woman.
A young woman, dark-haired, with a firm body. Naked, lying on
the grass, she waited for him. He, naked before her, would not
cover her with his body. As though an invisible hand held him.
He woke up exhausted; it was not yet light.
When he reached the bank, he stopped and looked. The river!
So this river really was there? At times, he used to think that
it did not actually exist. Perhaps it was a fantasy, a mass mirage.
He had found an opportunity and he headed straight for the
river. The early morning was a marvel! If he were lucky, and
they did not get wind of him ... ! If only he had time to dive
into the river, to get into water, nothing else mattered.
On the bank, he left his clothes on a tree and his gun propped
up against the trunk. For the last time, he glanced once behind
him, should one of his people be there, and once at the opposite
bank, should there be one of The Others. And he entered the
water.
From the moment his naked body touched the water, this
body in torment for two and a half years, and already scarred
by two wounds, from that very moment he felt like a different
man. As if a hand holding a sponge had gone through him and
erased those two and a half years.
Now he swam on his stomach, now on his back. He would
float with the current. He would dive ....
This soldier was a child, only twenty-three, with the marks of
the last two and a half years deep within him.
On the right and on the left, on each bank, birds were flutter-
The River
33
ing and now and then greeted him, flying over him.
Beyond him, a branch was floating, caught by the current.
He decided to reach it with one dive. And he did. He came up
by the branch. Joy stirred in him. But at that moment he saw a
head before him, some thirty meters away.
He stopped and tried to see more clearly.
The other swimmer, too, had seen him; he, too, had stopped.
They looked at each other.
Immediately, he became again the man he had been earlier:
a soldier with two and half years' war behind him, decorated,
and his rifle by the tree.
He could not tell whether the man was one of his people or
one of The Others. How could he tell? He could only see a head.
This fellow could be one of his own people. Or one of The Others.
For a few minutes, both stood still inside the waters. The
silence was broken by a sneeze. It was he who sneezed, and as he
was wont to, he cursed aloud. Then the man before him began
to swim rapidly towards the other bank. But he, too, lost no time.
He swam toward his bank with all his might. He was first to
come out. He ran to the tree where he had left his rifle, grabbed
it. The Other was just coming out of the water. He, too, was
running for his rifle.
He raised his gun and aimed. It was a simple matter to shoot
this fellow in the head. The Other was a perfect target as he
ran, naked, some twenty meters away.
No, he did not pull the trigger. The Other was over there,
naked as the day he was born. And he, too, was here, naked
as the day he was born.
He could not shoot. They were both naked. Two naked men.
Naked of clothing. Naked of names. Naked of nationality . Naked
of their drab army selves.
He could not shoot. The river did not separate them now; on
the contrary, it united them.
He could not shoot. The Other had now become one other
man, without a capital 0, nothing less, nothing more.
He lowered his gun. He lowered his head. And to the end
he saw nothing; he had the time to see only some birds fluttering
in their fright, as, from the opposite bank, came the shot; he
folded his knees and then fell, his face to the earth.
34
THE CHARIOTEER
WAR STORY
translated by Edwin Jahiel
Three-fourths of the city was in ruins. In the last two weeks
the city had changed hands three times. The population had fled
by any available means.
That afternoon the fighting was at its peak, behind the tailway station; that is, behind what used to be the railway station.
Both sides were going strong. Holed up in what was left of the
houses, behind walls that were still standing, behind walls that
were half down, holed up in basements, they had set up their
machine-guns.
Protected by a wall, he kept loading his rifle and shooting.
He loaded and he shot, as the rest of the men. For nearly three
years he had been at the same job: loading and shooting.
"It's going to rain," said a soldier next to him.
"Is it now? And I bet you forgot your umbrella," kidded the
sergeant.
Someone laughed, but his laughter was drowned by a burst of
machine-gun fire that stitched up the wall. The soldier who had
said it was going to rain grabbed his belly with both hands and
folded in two. The sergeant bent over him, unfolded him, opened
his eyes, did something else, then left him there and went back
to his machine-gun.
In the meantime, he had not stopped reloading and shooting.
A few city blocks separated the two sides. About a hundred
meters.
A hospital sign with a green cross on it said: QUIET PLEASE.
"Look there !" someone shouted.
While all hell was breaking loose, there, about half-way between the adversaries, stood a child. A boy of seven, perhaps
eight. He had come out of the wreckage. He stood against the wall.
For a few seconds both sides stopped shooting, as though
someone had ordered, "Hold your fire!"
But the lull did not last. Again they blazed away. And the
child was still there, against the wall. Then, quitting his reloading
and his firing, he left his gun, fell flat on his stomach and began
to crawl toward the child. Around him the bullets were like rain.
He was looking at the child who sat on the bed, at the end
War Story
35
of the room. He had taken him to the ground floor of a house
that stood half-destroyed, a block from the battle area. Later he
would send him behind the lines.
A bullet had hit him in the left arm as he crawled towards
the child. They had improvised a bandage.
How strange that he had come back alive, and with the child.
His wounded arm took him off the firing line.
The child was sitting on the bed, looking at him, saying
nothing. He glanced around the room: an iron bed, the sofa he
was sitting on, a trunk, some chairs, one of them broken, and on
the wall two framed landscapes. And a photograph, two people, a
man and a woman standing close together, smiling.
Who knows who used to live there! Who knows what happened to them!
"I saved the life of a child!" he thought.
He looked at him. How was it that he had been left alone
among the ruins? He had not asked him anything yet. The child
had the look of a frightened animal. His eyes were somber and
wild.
"Surely I'll be up for a decoration," he thought.
It was hot. He rubbed his chest with his good hand. He
thought of his home, of his friends, of his interrupted studies.
He thought, in short, of everything that men at war think about
- everything except the girl back home. For him there was no
such girl.
"I saved the life of a child!"
Sleep overtook him.
•
He did not see him on the bed when he opened his eyes. He
was on the left, in a corner, behind the trunk. He was playing.
Playing war. He was using the leg of the broken chair for a
gun, behind the trunk, as though he were behind a road block.
He did not see him wake up. And he went on playing war.
The soldier looked at him, not moving, not saying a word. He
saw him growing up, becoming twenty, playing war, real war,
the way he himself had been playing it for three years, the way
millions of others were playing it ....
"I saved the life of a child," he thought. But now his thought
was different.
36
THE CHARIOTEER
In the street he heard much commotion. He went to see.
"What happened? " he asked the soldiers hurrying by.
"What d'you think is going on? Any minute now this block
is going to blow up. We're pulling back!"
He just stood there, in the middle of the street.
"You, there! What are you waiting for, you fool!" shouted a
second lieutenant. "Don't you know what's coming? Unless you're
anxious to get yourself killed."
He kept standing there.
"I saved the life of a child!"
How odd the words sounded!
The sun was going down. Soon it would touch the horizon.
Two soldiers were going past him. He went with them.
from DANGER SIGNAL
translated by Katherine H ortis
"Eat fruit. It gives beauty and health." The fat woman in the
train across the aisle was eating apples, skin and all, one after
another. She took each apple from the paper bag she held to
her breast as if she were holding a child. "Eat fruit. It gives
beauty and health," was printed on the paper bag. The fat woman
took an apple, rubbed it lightly over her skirt, as if to clean it,
then bit her teeth, her blackened teeth, into its meat. "Eat fruit.
It gives beauty and health." From where I sat at the aisle, at the
edge of my seat, I had a general view: the fat woman opposite,
the other fat woman on the left seat, the two soldiers, no, one
was a soldier, the other a corporal. I had a general view: the
priest at the end continuously pulling at his beard as if he had
some previous grudge against it, the two live-stock dealers who
were loudly discussing calf prices. I had a general view. "Apple?"
the fat woman opposite me said, extending the paper bag toward
me. "No thank you," I said. "Tse! Tse! Tse !" said the fat woman.
"You're not right. Fruit ...." "Yes, I know," I cut her short; "It
gives beauty and health." "Exactly!" interjected the thin little
fellow who sat by the fat woman, the thin little fellow in the
black suit and black glasses. He looked like a notary public; the
Danger Signal
37
fat woman said to him, "Take an apple!" "Merci," said the thin
little fellow, stretched out his hand, made as if to search in the
paper bag, selecting. "Take your choice. Take your choice!" said
the fat woman. He was a long while selecting; he was selecting,
selecting, and at the same time he was stealthily caressing the
fat woman's breast. "Take your choice! Take your choice!" The
fat woman repeated, melting away. The thin little fellow kept
selecting. "Eat fruit. It gives beauty and health." From where I
sat, I had a general view. "What time do you have'?" asked one.
"Close to noon, ten to twelve," said another. "Where are you
bound for?" the one by me asked, a diminutive fellow, who until
then had not raised his eyes from the book he was reading. I
looked at my ticket; "Athens-Platamon," it said; "Platamon,"
I said. "Good! Very good!" he said. I did not know where I was
going, I did not remember what I had said to the conductor, I
had to look at my ticket to answer the man who had asked me,
"Where are you bound for?" The ticket said, "Athens-Platamon,"
yes; when the conductor had come and said, "Your ticket," I said
that I had not had time to buy one, I had arrived late at the
station, just as the train was leaving. "O.K.," said the conductor,
"You can buy a ticket now, on the spot." "Yes," I said. He asked
me where I was going. I did not know what to say. He asked
me again, thinking I had not heard him. I happened to see written
in green ink on a basket at my feet, "Mr.... ". I did not notice
the name, but I saw written, "Platamon." "Platamon !" I said to
the conductor; then he cut a ticket. He did some figuring, added
a total plus taxes. I paid, I took the ticket, I now had a ticket,
a ticket for "Athens-Platamon." The train was taking me to
Platamon. I had nothing to do at Platamon. It did not matter.
The point was that after my all night wandering in the streets
of Athens, I had found myself in the morning, without knowing,
at the station. I had entered the station without knowing a train
was leaving just then. I had jumped on a car without knowing,
a third-class car full of people, and had found a small space on
a seat near the aisle. "Eat fruit. It gives beauty and health." The
fat woman opposite was eating apples, continuously. The thin
little fellow was continuously poking his hand in the paper bag,
he was continuously caressing the fat woman's breast, pretending
to be choosing an apple. The other fat woman on the seat to the
38
THE CHARIOTEER
left, continuously; the two soldiers continuously at the end; no,
the one was a soldier, the other was a corporal; the two live-stock
dealers loudly discussing the prices of calves continuously; the
priest at the end continuously pulling at his beard; the diminutive fellow by me continuously reading his book. "Eat fruit. It
gives beauty and health," was continuously written on the paper
bag, and the train ran continuously, ran. I had passed the night
like a stray dog, wandering in the streets of Athens. No, I had
gone to a hotel, after midnight, near Kaningos Square, the "Claridge Hotel." I had asked for a room; they had given me room
44, fourth floor, I had gone in, closed the door, removed one shoe,
and put it on again quickly. The room was taken; how had they
made a mistake and given me a room that was taken; how had
they made a mistake. The hotel was not the "Claridge" near
Kaningos Square; it was the "Arachova," Sophocleous 33. The
room was not number 44; the room was number 28, second floor.
Yes, the room was taken. Demakopoulos was there, Demakopoulos
was in bed, Demakopoulos was waiting for me, he was waiting
for me with a knife in his heart. I had put on my shoe quickly,
I had plunged into the hall, down the stairs, into the street, the
streets, the streets, all night I had wandered, wandered like a
stray dog, "Eat fruit. It gives beauty wnd health." The train
rushed; what the devil possessed it to run as it did, "We're going
well," some one said. "Eh, it is fast," another said; "If it was
a mail train ...." we're going well, no, we're not going well,
we're not going well, " ... because the Soviet Union ultimatum
about Berlin ends the 27th of May. And for that reason the fear
of war is in the air ...." "Eat fruit. It gives beauty and health,"
there was quiet, very quiet in the train, "Passiflorine, 2 teaspoonfuls, noon and night," we're going well, no, no, we're not going
well, the war, the war, the hunger, hunger, quiet in the train,
the weather muggy outside, hot and humid, the windows closed,
all the windows closed, all the windows closed, "Choose! Choose !"
the fat woman opposite, "Merci," the thin little man, his hand on
the apple, his hand on the breast, "Eat fruit. It gives beauty and
health," whatever true, whatever worthwhile, has happened in
this world of men has anxiety at its core, disquiet. "Passiflorine,
2 teaspoonfuls noon and night,'' not Dr. Daikos, not Dr. Mattheos,
not Dr. Markos, not Dr. Loukas, not Dr. Ioannis, it is the anxiety,
Danger Signal
39
the holy anxiety, which does not exist in the churches, the anxiety
that Christ had, the anxious, the anguishing Christ. "Eat fruit. It
gives beauty and health,'' the restlessness that Christ had, the
anxious, the anguishing Christ, not the so-called Christ of the
Religious Society, "The Pious Life." "Eat fruit. It glves beauty
and health," the train full of smoke, the train full of people, the
train full of quiet, great quiet, a peaceful train, a peaceful train
in our time is an unnatural train, a peaceful person in our time is
an unnatural person, all the windows closed, an impasse, impasse,
"Eat fruit. It gives beauty and health," "Choose! Choose!" Demakopoulos chose an outlet, no, this is not an escape, this is not an
escape, it is not. What is an outlet. I do not know, I don't know
the outlet, I have no outlet - a prescription "Passiflorine, 2 teaspoons noon and evening," I do not know an outlet, I do not
know hope, the only hope for an escape is anxiety, restlessness,
as long as I have anxiety, I hope, as long as I am anxious, I hope,
as long as there are anxious people in our world, as long as there
is anxiety in our world there is hope, yes, there is hope as long
as there is restlessness. "Eat fruit. It gives beauty and health,"
the train ran, ran, the weather muggy, peace in the train, great
peace in the train, no, it is not a train, it is not a train, it is
a cafe-pastry shop, "The Beautiful Thessalia," no, it is not a
train, it is the Pharsalon Club, peaceful, peaceful, no, it is not
a train, no, it is not "The Beautiful Thessalia,'' no, it is not the
Pharsalon Club, it is our world, our world, these people around
me, the fat woman opposite, the other fat woman on the seat on
the right, the little thin man, the microscopic man next to me,
the two soldiers at the far end, no, one is a soldier, the other is
a corporal, the two live-stock dealers who loudly discuss the price
of calves, the priest who pulls at his beard; yes, they are our
world, they are the people of the world, they are peaceful, peaceful, how is it possible for them to be peaceful, the war, the war,
the famine, the famine, how is it possible for them to be peaceful,
how is it possible for them not to be anxious. "Eat fruit. It gives
beauty and health," "Eat fruit. It gives beauty and health," the
train ran, ran. "We are going at 170 kilometers minimum,'' said
one; how is it possible for them to be calm, " ... because the ultimatum of the Soviet Union for Berlin expires the 27th May. For
this reason, the fear of war is in the air ...." the war, and even
40
THE CHARIOTEER
if we escape the 27th May, something else will appear, yes, something else undoubtedly; Berlin is the excuse, the threat of war
will remain forever, the fear of war, the possibility of war, how
is it possible for them to be calm. "Mr. Demakopoulos? Aristides
Demakopoulos, please?" the water in the lavatory was running,
running, running. "It is three nights that I haven't slept with
Anna," "I felt fear in the thought that I would have a child ....
a child of my own . . . fear gripped me ... fear! A child in this
world!" Yes, he was waiting for me, he had left the door open
and was waiting for me. I looked at his face, it was the first
time that I had seen his face so peaceful, I looked at his face, I
looked at the knife in his chest, in his heart, no, no, this is not
an outlet, this is not an outlet that Demakopoulos chose, my
brother Demakopoulos, my accomplice Demakopoulos, my other
self Demakopoulos. "Passiflorine, 2 teaspoons noon and evening,"
the water running in the lavatory, I turned and shut the faucet,
I shut the faucet tight, tight, "What do you have to offer me as an
outlet? You are responsible for me! You are responsible! Responsible!" I had no outlet, I knew no outlet, what I knew though was
that as long as anxious people exist in our world, there is hope,
in anxiety an outlet will be found, as long as the fire of anxiety
burns in people's hearts there is hope, but there are not many
really anxious people in our world; there is the danger, there is
the great danger, that little by little the anxiety will be stilled in
the hearts of the people, that is essentially the danger, the
people in the train, the people in our world are without anxiety,
they give me a feeling of peace, I sense it, they have no anxiety.
"Eat fruit. It gives beauty and health," here is the danger, the
danger. "The operating room is ready," said the head nurse, the
operating room, what does it mean, the operating room, what
is today, 4th of April, yes, 4th of April, on leave from the City
Hospital, 30 days on leave, 30 days margin, ends today, tomorrow
the fifth of April, I have no leave, tomorrow the 5th of April I
have no margin, tomorrow the 5th of April I have to report early
in the morning at the City Hospital, no! I refuse! I refuse! "The
operating room is ready," said the head nurse. "My child, doctor!
My John!" "Stop the comedy! Stop the comedy! Stop the comedy !" The train ran, ran, 120 kilometers minimum, 120 kilometers,
the 5th of March I threw the stone at the store window of "The
Danger Signal
41
Beautiful Thessalia," and disappeared into the night, the 7th of
March I threw the stone at the Club window and disappeared
into the night. I was afraid, to say it was I, I was afraid, not
now, I am not afraid now, the 4th of April I was not afraid to
say it was I, I was not afraid of anyone, I was not afraid of
anything, yes, I am "Drakos," the "Drakos" who makes you
anxious, the "Drakos" who makes you anxious. I had now something to say to the people, I had to say that hope, that the outlet
is in anxiety, as long as there is anxiety there is hope, as long
as anxious people exist there is hope, yes, I was not afraid on
the 4th of April, I had something to say to the people, these
people were not anxious, the train ran, ran, 120 kilometers
minimum, 120 kilometers minimum, the war, the war, the hunger, the hunger, enough! Enough! These people were calm but
they had no right to be calm, they should not be calm, above the
danger of war is the danger of our being without anxiety in
the face of war, above the danger of hunger is the danger of
our being without anxiety in the face of hunger, yes, that is
the danger, the real danger, the number one danger. "Eat fruit.
It gives beauty and health," the train ran, the train ran, these
people were calm, calm, but they had no right to be calm, they
had no right to be calm, right here is the danger, right here is
the danger, the train ran, ran, yes, the number one danger is the
extinction of danger in the hearts of man, the extinction of the
Holy Anxiety, this, this should not, should not be extinguished,
that is the danger, that is the danger, danger, danger, danger.
I rushed and pulled the DANGER SIGNAL.
42
THE CHARIOTEER
POST OFFICE STREET
translated by Michael Antonakes*
He went and stood at the mirror, the one on the sideboard
in the center of the room.
He looked at himself, passing his hand over his face. "Well,
I need a shave," he said loudly as if he were having a dialogue
with someone else in the room.
He turned his left hand and looked at his watch. "Six more
minutes and it will be exactly ten past ten."
He unbuttoned his collar which had been annoying him.
"Since there is no time, the shaving must be postponed."
He was going to say something else but he did not. He merely
took his comb from the back pocket of his trousers and carefully
straightened the part in his hair.
From the mirror he moved to the door of the dining room.
He grabbed the latch to open it, but he held off. He then walked
to the three-fold door of the veranda.
He pulled the curtains back a little and put his face to the
window. Outside, he saw the garden, the trees, the cisterns, the
many-colored flower pots, again the trees, and the rubber garden
hose curled on the ground like a huge snake. It seemed to act
as the watch-dog of the house, always on the look-out and serving this notice:
I LIVE HERE
AND I BITE
In the mist from his breath that clouded the window, he
began to write a name - a short, well-loved name.
When he was a boy - not 25 then, but 15 -he also went to
the window which he clouded with his breath and wrote a name
-a short well-loved name.
He began now to do the same -to write on the misty window,
still warm from his breath, a short, well-loved name, but he did
not. He drew only a strong finger mark across the window.
He took up his pack of cigarettes. It contained five whole cigarettes and two half ones. He took one, a whole one, and lighted a
* Professor Michael Antonakes is Chairman of the Department of English,
State College at Salem, Massachusetts. He is now writing a book on
Samarakis for the Twayne Publishers.
Post Office Street
43
match. Someone sang quietly in the dining room. He listened
to make out the song, but he could not recognize it. The song
was gentle. Before he had a chance to light up, the match
burned his fingers.
He looked at his wrist watch again and said loudly, "In four
minutes it will be ten after ten."
He struck another match and quickly lit his cigarette.
Leaning in the doorframe, he turned towards the interior, the
living room: the heavy, square table, the vase with the red carnations, the two straw chairs, the two non-straw chairs, the buffet, the large, oval mirror, the photograph on the wall between
the door of the dining room and the buffet.
He went to that photograph :
A SOUVENI R OF AUNT HELEN'S
BIRTHDA Y PARTY .- 22 JANUARY 1945
Aunt Helen was in the center, not exactly, a little to the
right, surrounded by her relatives, laughing angelicall y- angelically and idiotically.
"Near the end she was too fat," he said. "She should have
kept an eye on her blood pressure."
Then, as if he were measuring the width of the room, he
took large steps from the photograph to the only window.
He bent over and looked outside : a street steeped in sunlight,
the friendly morning sun of May.
On the corner, a somewhat discolored sign:
POST OFFICE STREET
At No. 44:
"ELEGAN CE"
COIFFURE S IN THE LATEST STYLE
PERMANE NT WAVES
At No. 42A:
THE "IKAROS" TRAVEL BUREAU
TICKETS FOR ALL LANDS
QUALIFIE D PERSONN EL
IMMEDIA TE SERVICE
ESTABLIS HED IN 1899
At No. 42 : Entrance into the apartment house
At No. 40:
44
THE CHARIOTEER
LARGE PUBLIC HOTEL
MON REPOS
Some underwea r in the windows of the third and the fourth
floors.
On the wall between the entrance of the apartmen t house
and "MON REPOS" a big, many-colored billboard.
MUNICI PAL THEATE R
Thursday , March 8, 1945
Time - 9 :30 p.m.
A MAJOR CONCERT
BY THE PHILHA RMONIC ORCHESTRA
OF OUR CITY
PART A
W. A. Mozart: Magic Flute (Overture )
L. Beethoven : Concert for piano and orchestra ,
Number 3, in A minor
Intermiss ion
PART B
W. A. Mozart: Serenade Number 5, in B major
At the billboard, face down on the sidewalk, a large, black
dog with white spots.
He looked at his watch. "Eleven past!" he said strongly,
"Eleven past ten. For sitting and gaping at the window, I'm
now a minute late."
He quickly went to the buffet and took up the microphone.
He looked at it a moment and then held it firmly in the palm
of his hand. His voice was warm, warm and tender,
We are waging this war. When it is over, it will
bring a new world, a changed world, a world . . . .
give to all men: bread, freedom and peace.
He stood motionless, glanced at the microphone and again
squeezed it in his hand. He had to say the same words, exactly
the same words. His voice was again warm, warm and tender,
We are waging this war. When it is over, it will
bring a new world, a changed world, a world . . .
At that moment, the bullet came. It came from the window
and passed through the sandbags. Somewhere it found a crack,
a loose sack, and came through, near his right hand and went
on to strike the vase with the wilted red carnations.
Post Office Street
45
On the night of Thursday, March 8, 1945, the intermission
had just ended and the "B" part of the concert at the Municipal
Theater had just begun- actually it was about five minutes
into the program or perhaps even longer - when, in that large,
suffocatingly crowded hall, the news broke. If the huge crystal
chandelier had fallen from the ceiling and had splintered on
the heads of the audience, it could not have made the impression that this event made at that moment. The orchestra was
playing Mozart's Serenade, Number 5 in B major, the most passionate section, the andante moderato, when the news came.
A great panic followed. Beside themselves, the thirteenhundred or so theater-goers rushed to the exits. In the panic,
some were screaming words no one could understand. Nor did
the screamers themselves know exactly what came from their
mouths. Some sang the National Anthem, and the Vice-President
of the Municipal Assembly, placing himself on one of the "distinguished" seats, kept exclaiming, "Long live the Emperor!" It
is true that no such Emperor existed, but it made no difference.
The important fact was that the message spread in seconds
through the audience. Many in the audience got bruised; others,
who were trampled, suffocated.
Well, the fact is that those thirteen-hundred or so theatergoers emptied the Municipal Theater quickly that night and fell
into the streets of the small city. But, at the same time, other
people in the town had also fled to the streets, running into the
night, taking whatever each could manage to salvage, almost
nothing.
That is how the town was deserted Thursday night, March
8, 1945. It was empty of its 27,000 inhabitants that made up
most of its population.
During all the years of the war, the war had shown no concern for the city. But the night of the concert, circumstances
took a 180 degree turn, a direction that no one had foreseen.
All night, the opposing forces rushed toward the city, one
from the southwest, the other from the north.
The flight of the people from the city continued until the
early morning hours. No one, except a few stubborn dogs who
did not wish to leave, remained. As the last refugees passed
46
THE CHARIOTEER
the western exit of the city, they met the first motorized battalions and infantry units.
The war came to the city like a sudden spring squall. But
the condition did not clear up quickly, as some had expected. It
did not improve in favor of the one side or the other.
For a month and a few days more, the city was bombarded
from both sides. The street battles were savage and ruthless.
Many buildings were burned to ashes; others remained intact.
But there was no street that did not bleed. Since the roads
were not built for war, for a war of tanks, most streets were
narrow and the dead often hindered the living who came passing
through.
Some dogs of those that remained in the city were also slain.
Eventually, after a month and a few days, neither one nor
the other of the two players could win the game. The city remained suspended between the two. A boundary between them
was a sharp line made by Post Office Street, the central artery
that divided the city, from the city hall to the railroad station.
Along the boundary of Post Office Street, one group found
itself among the odd numbers; the other, among the even.
Then, exactly upon this sharing of Post Office Street, came
this unexpected interval.
In truth, it was not the only interval. The two rivals had
an immediate need to hold a little, to catch their breath, to mend
their wounds, to renew their strength for the new attack.
The interval came to the two pavements of Post Office Street
at the same time, as if the two adversaries had an agreement
on the matter.
At that moment, when the war stopped to catch its breath,
the "War of the Megaphones" came to take its place, to be its
substitute.
The General invited him one morning, in the presence of his
Major, and offered him a cigar.
"Lieutenant, you are promoted to General of the Megaphones," the General said to him. "Yes, we should try to exploit
the interval that we now see in session. The psychological war,
Lieutenant, has enormous significance. The effect on the morale
of our adversary is - but there is no need to explain. So, on
our side of Post Office Street, we will place megaphones, many
Post Office Street
47
megaphones, every available megaphone. And you, Lieutenant,
you are the only one who knows the language of the enemy."
Thus, in short, one noon in April 1945, it was actually early
afternoon, the War of the Megaphones began on Post Office
Street, and on the side with the odd numbers, the reserve Lieutenant, leader of the 3rd Company of the 144th Infantry Battalion, suddenly discovered that he was "General of the Megaphones."
His "Headquarters" was at 37 Post Office Street on the
ground floor, of a once three-story building. Only the ground floor
had survived the bombardment and was still in good condition.
He had his microphone in the living room, which the nameless occupants had fled during the night and had left exactly as it was,
even the vase of red carnations on the heavy, square table.
He had his microphone at his Headquarters and he commanded 114 camouflaged megaphones at various positions along
his side of the pavement.
The morning when the General asked him to come to him,
he gave him the text to be read over the microphone. The Lieutenant was not to change a word. The General emphasized this :
not a word!
The Lieutenant read the text that he translated himself for
the first time on that afternoon in April, and the 113 megaphones
took up the message quickly, multiplied and magnified it, and
sent it to the side of the street with the even numbers.
Of course, the side of the street with the even numbers did
not delay but quickly installed its own "Headquarters of Megaphones." That same afternoon, a second "General of the Megaphones" spoke in his language from his side. The first "General" did not know him but simply heard his voice.
The other General of the Megaphones said the same words,
as he said. He had translated his copy and read it precisely
the same, word for word.
The "General" on the side of the street with the odd numbers
had specific moments when he was to speak into the microphone
and he was supposed to maintain them to the exact second.
Often it happened that the two Generals on both sides of
the street read at the same time, and the 250 megaphones (since
both sides had about an equal number) created a nightmarish
48
THE CHARIOTEER
atmosphere up and down Post Office Street. With few interruptions, first one speaker and then the other filled the twentyfour hours of each day.
The interval continued for twenty-three consecutive days, but
no one from either side of Post Office Street ever deceived
himself. From moment to moment the War of Megaphones would
become again the war.
The interval was only a break of dry, sultry weather that
was preparing for a new storm. Even the exchange of fire that
sporadically criss-crossed the street left no one with any illusions. It was a reminder of the war, the other, genuine war
that everyone expected to begin again at any moment. As before, it would begin with the same inexorable certainty.
No one fooled himself: the new attack was not far away.
Whenever possible, the two adversaries secretly renewed their
strength. All that remained was the command for the next
onslaught.
"The order for the new attack can arrive any moment," the
Major, commander of the 144th Infantry Battalion, had told
them the previous Wednesday, during the regular officers' meeting. Every morning, at about 11, the Major visited the "Headquarters of the Megaphones."
Someone questioned him about the matter. The Major explained, "At any moment! The command will come by special
messenger. Our information is certain. The interval is moving
toward its ending. In fact, this ending may be very close, very,
very close. I have the authority to forewarn you. The new attack is imminent. Then you, General of the Megaphones, will
be dismissed forthwith as General, and you will return to your
position as Lieutenant, Lieutenant, leader of the 3rd Company
of the 144th Infantry Battalion.
The Sergeant, who was repairing the installation for the
microphone, entered the discussion at that moment, "Unless the
others anticipate us, Major, and begin the attack first."
The Major smiled confidently. He adjusted the revolver at
his belt. "In any case, there is small chance that the others will
surprise us," he said. "I assure you, Sergeant! Understand?"
"Lieutenant, are you all right?" the Sergeant shouted. When
the bullet came, he was the first to run from the dining room,
Post Office Street
49
the apple he was eating still in hand. He opened the door with
such force that he came toppling down upon the table with the
smashed vase of red carnations.
"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" he repeated.
The Lieutenant did not answer him at once. He put the microphone on the buffet.
"We were lucky, Sergeant," he said. "The vase of red carnations paid the price for us."
The Sergeant went to the window and rummaged through
the sandbags.
"How the hell did it get through so many sandbags?" he said.
"It must have found a crack somewhere. No need to philosophize, Sergeant."
Two startled privates entered.
"What is it? Did something happen?" asked the taller one.
"The window needs reinforcement, Long John," said the Sergeant. "And you, both of you, sandbags! Quickly, sandbags, go
get sandbags !"
There were chinks in the sandbags. If someone put his eye
close, as if from an observation point, he could see a large section of Post Office Street.
"Chances are it hit a crack, Sergeant," he said. "Chances
are that's how it happened."
"Do you think they've discovered our position, Lieutenant?"
asked the Sergeant. "Discovered the Headquarters of the Megaphones? If that's the case ...."
"I can't tell, Sergeant. I don't know a thing. Maybe yes,
maybe no."
The Sergeant bit his apple. He quickly bit it again.
Suddenly, the megaphones from the other voice, the voice
of the other side:
"We are waging this war. When it is over, it will
bring a new world, a changed world, a world which will
give to all men: bread, freedom and peace."
The Lieutenant took his pack of cigarettes, gave one to the
Sergeant, and said, "So you hear him, Sergeant? Our colleague
wastes no time. Just as I stop, our confrere strikes. But I will
counter-attack you, my dear friend! Wait and see!"
"The War of the Megaphones is making me a nervous wreck,"
50
THE CHARIOTEER
the Sergeant said. "Megaphones, all the time, megaphones, megaphones!"
Lighting his cigarette, the Lieutenant stared at him.
"Don't get nervous, Sergeant. This condition cannot last long.
Didn't you hear what the Major said yesterday?"
The Sergeant whispered something and took a bite from his
apple.
The two privates, the taller one and the other, came in
carryng sandbags. The Sergeant went to the window and the
three of them started work on the sandbags.
The Lieutenant gave them a quick glance, took another puff
from his cigarette, went to the buffet and picked up the microphone. His voice had the same warm quality as before, warm
and tender:
We are waging this war. When it is over, it will
bring a new world, a changed world.
The messenger was in the doorway of the dining room. With
his left hand, he wiped the sweat from his face. In his right
hand, he had a sealed gray envelope.
One of the soldiers saw him first as he had leaned over to
pick up a sandbag.
"Lieutenant! The messenger, the new attack!" he yelled.
The other men then also saw the messenger.
The Lieutenant left the microphone on the buffet. "What's
the matter?" he said to the messenger.
The fellow greeted him, "A message for you, Lieutenant.
Special delivery!"
The Lieutenant took the envelope, tore it nervously and pulled
out the message.
''We've got to get away from this sultry situation!" said the
Sergeant and he bit his apple. "We're going to rot here!"
The tall soldier took the apple from the Sergeant's hand to
finish it. "You're right, Sergeant," he said, taking a bite, "We
have rotted here."
"The War of the Megaphones is over! Do you hear, Lieutenant?" said the Sergeant. "The War of the Megaphones is over!
The General of the Megaphones is through! Now comes the new
attack, the new . . . . "
"Shut up! Shut up!" the Lieutenant moved toward the Ser-
Post Office Street
51
geant as if he wante d to hit him. He crushed the envelope in
his right hand, squeezing with all his streng th as if he wante d
to melt it.
He had placed himself in the middle of the room, in front
of Aunt Helen's photograph. The Sergeant, the two soldiers, the
messenger stared at him and could not unders tand what had
happened.
"It's not possible!" he said, as if to himself. "No! It's not
possible, it's not . . . "
The others exchanged glances and again looked at him in
silence.
He passed his hand over his eyes as if he were trying to
push away a nightm are. Then, he looked at the others, one by one.
"Did you hear it?" he said. "It's not possible! That's not
to be! Not that! Not that!"
He went next to the buffet , grabbed the field telephone and
rang it.
"The General! Give me the General!" he shouted into the
receiver. "Oper ator! What the hell are you doing? Give me a
line. Right away! Move, damn it! Yes, the General, the General!
Oh, is that you, General? Yes, it's me. Of course, the General of
the Megaphones. You do unders tand that it's me! What do I
want? I want to ask you a question, General. At this moment,
exactly at this moment, General, I received a message. The messenger we were waitin g for finally arrive d. Yes, waitin g for him,
hour by hour, minute by minute, yes, General, the messenger
came that we expected moment to moment to bring the message.
But this message, the message, General, I want to ask you if this
message is true, General? It has your signat ure, your name, General. But I want to be certain, General, to be certain that this
in actual fact is your signat ure. Give me a moment to read it to
you. It's very brief.
Message of absolute priority. Special delivery - For
all companies and battalions. - The end of the war has
come. Time 11:11 - Today. CEAS E FIRE. "
He passed his hand over his face.
"Well, General, this message, General. Is it true? The end
of the war, General, the end of the war. How? I don't hear you,
General, I can't hear you, I've been cut off, Goddamn it!"
52
THE CHARIOTEER
He angrily turned the handle of the telephone.
"Operator! Go to hell ! I need the line, I tell you ! Give me
the line! Yes, the General, I just spoke with the General! Come
on! The line, the line! Go to hell, then! Oh, General, I was
speaking to the operator. They cut us off. Yes, it's me. Well?
This message, General, is this message true? This end of the war,
is it the end of the war, now, in a little while, at 11:11 ?"
As he listened to the General, he suddenly crumpled the
message again. He squeezed it with force and passion.
"No, General! It's not possible. It can't be possible," he said.
"The war is ending, now, the war is ending in a little- at 11:11?
In twelve- thirteen minutes, the war ends, the war will be over?
But the war can't end, General. It's not possible for the war to
end. It can't be now, immediately, in twelve minutes, the end of
the war! No, General, it can't. It can't. Why? Because, I am
afraid, General. Yes. Do you hear me? I'm afraid! The betrayal,
General, I'm afraid of the betrayal, after the war, the world
that will come after the war, after 11 :11. If that world, General,
is not the one that I have promised for twenty-three days, for
twenty-three consecutive days, General; if that world is not a
new, if it is not a changed world, if it is not a world that will
bring bread, peace and freedom to all men! If that world is to
give the lie to our promises, a huge, deep, incurable lie. Yes, General, if I were not the General of the Megaphones, if I had not said
all these things to all of them, General, I feel that all that I have
said, that I have promised all these things not only to those on the
side of Post Office Street with the even numbers, but to all men,
General. Yes, to all of mankind, I promised to everyone a new
world, a changed world. If I had not made that promise, then,
maybe - but now I can't, General ! I can't see the war end in
a little while, suddenly, just like that, at 11:11, in a few minutes,
in ten - eleven minutes. I can't accept this end of the war,
General. I am afraid, General; I'm afraid! I'm not afraid to die,
you know that, but the life, the life that is coming after the
war, I'm afraid of it, General. I am not ready for that life.
Twenty-three days now, twenty-three, twenty-four-h our days,
straight, day and night, I have promised all these things, I, I!
The words I said, that I was always saying, weren't simply
written by someone else. Slowly, slowly, they became mine, Gen-
Post Office Street
53
eral. I was the one saying them all the time. I was the one who
gave the promis e to all men, I promised the world, the new, the
changed world! For days this fear has tormen ted me, day and
night, but I said nothing. I said nothing to anyone. But now, I
can't anymore, General! I can't any more ! If the betraya l comes,
General, if I don't keep my promise, I'm afraid, General. I'm
afraid! If the Deception comes . . . how will I look in the eyes
of men . . . straigh t in the eyes of men! How will I be able to do
this, Genera l? I'm afraid, Genera l; I'm afraid of the Great Betrayal! Do you hear me, General? Operat or, give me the line,
the line quickly, the line, the line! It's you at last, General.
They cut us off again. What? I'm speakin g too quickly? But I
want to be in time, General, to act before it's too late! There
is still time, it's one past eleven, you have time, Genera l; you
have time to revoke your command, to recall the end of the war.
I'm afraid, I'm afraid of the world that will come after the war,
General - that world, that life, General. You have time to
revoke the order - revoke, I beg you, Genera l; I entreat you:
stop that life! Revoke that life! You have time; there is still
time. Not the end of the war! Not the life to come! Not the
life to come! Operat or! The line, you devil! Give me the line!
Quickly the line; the line. General, they've cut us off three times.
General, I am pleadin g with you. You have time to stop the
end of the war, to revoke life, life. I am responsible, General,
I am responsible. I have a responsibility before all men, a responsibility to those on the other side of the street, a responsibility to all, a responsibility, a respons ibility! The line! Give
me the line, the line, the line! What? What did you say? The
General! The General hung up - the General - the General
cut off the line!"
He dropped the receiver. His face was soaked in perspir ation.
Not until after he droppe d the receive r did he see the Major in
the door of the dining room.
"Major !" he said. "Major , when did you come? I didn't see
you. I didn't know that you were here."
The Major moved toward the door of the verand a.
"I've been here for sometime, Lieuten ant," he said abruptl y.
"And I heard everyth ing, Lieuten ant, everyth ing!"
54
THE CHARIOTEER
The Lieutenant looked at the Major, the Sergeant, the two
soldiers, the messenger.
"For some time? And you heard everything, everything that
I said to the General! But he cut me off! The General hung up
on me, Major. The General didn't understand, he didn't understand anything? But Generals never understand - never, nothing.
Generals are incapable of understanding anything, or maybe they
just don't want to."
The Major took a step toward him.
"Lieutenant! The end of the war has come. Do you hear?
The end of the war is here, at 11:11. In eight minutes, the
war will be over. Well, Lieutenant. The order comes by command,
and there is no room for any kind of discussion. Commands are
not discussed; they are simply carried out."
He went toward the window without saying a word to the
Major. He stopped.
"Major, they didn't ask me about this, they didn't ask me
about the end of the war, they didn't ask me! I can't accept it.
I can't accept the end of the war! I have a responsibility, Major,
a responsibility!"
The Major said, "Lieutenant, I repeat, I order you to accompany me to Headquarters , immediately! You must come with me
to Headquarters at this moment. Well?"
The Major stepped toward the Lieutenant. "Don't come near
me!" he shouted, pulling out his revolver. "Don't come near,
Major! I'm telling you, don't approach, I forbid you to approach
me."
He moved from wall to wall and stood with his back to the
birthday photograph of ,Aunt Helen.
"Don't even take a half step!" he said, waving his revolver
at the Major. "Not a half step, because you won't make it to the
other half."
The Major did not move from where he stood.
"Lieutenant," he said, looking the man in the eyes. "I am
ordering you, the war is ending, the war is ending."
"And I'm ordering you not to come near me. I've got to
ask someone - it's absolutely essential that I ask his opinion,
to speak with him. There are a few minutes left, a few minutes.
I still have a chance to speak to him."
Post Office Street
55
He went toward the outer door, opened it, and with a leap,
was in the street. He ran to the side of the street with the even
numbers. He did not go on the sidewalk but stood two paces
before it.
"Where are you? I don't know where you are!" he said,
placing the revolver back in its holster. "For twenty -three days
we two have been talking to the others, to all the others in this
world; we've been making a promise to all men, that the world
after the war is going to be a new, a changed world, that will
give bread, freedom, and peace to all men. We two have been
making the same promise during all of this time, the same promise to everybody, we two, we who are enemies. But in that
promise, we have been accomplices. I don't know where you are.
Are you near me? No? Do you hear me?"
He moved toward the entranc e of MON REPOS. He stared
at the windows as if he expected the other fellow to come out
from one of them at any moment.
"I don't know where you are, but you can hear me! Isn't that
how it is? I know you can hear me! I am speaking now with my
voice, my own voice. I have found my voice again. I don't speak
with the voice of the megaphones. I'm not using someone else's
voice. You hear me! I know you can hear me. I am speaking to
you myself; truly, it is me, with my own, my own voice."
He stopped and again stared into the windows of MON
REPOS. He then glanced at the windows in the apartm ent house
and at the broken-down showcase of the IKAROS Travel and
Touris t Service. Then he looked at his watch.
"We don't have much time," he shouted. "There are six minutes, six minute s and it will be exactly 11:11. Speak then! Speak
to me with your voice. Tell me what we are going to do? What?
What are we going to do? You feel a responsibility for what
you have promised to mankind, I know it! You feel a terrify ing
responsibility, a complete responsibility for everything, because
like me, you are not a General. Only Generals don't sense a responsibility. The Generals never feel a responsibility for anythin g!
But you do and you are afraid as I am, you are afraid of the
betrayal. If the world that will come, that is coming, if it is not
the one that you promised to all men from the side of Post Office
Street with the even numbers - if the world that is coming is
56
THE CHARIOTEER
not the one that I promised from the side with the odd - if you
don't keep your promise, how will you look into the eyes of men?
This is tormentin g you, too. I know it. I know it well ! You are
afraid just as I am. We are both afraid, we who are accomplices,
accomplices."
He moved to the right. He glanced at his watch again.
"Tell me what we are going to do, what are we two going
to do, we two accomplices! Four minutes remain! Tell me! Speak
to me with your own voice, just as I am addressin g you with
my own now. Not with the voice of the Generals. Give me your
voice, not the voice of the Generals. Are we going to do something? We have three minutes. I'm afraid of the same things you
fear. Tell me what to do? We are both afraid, we are both responsible. If the betrayal comes, if it comes, we are in it together;
we must share the blame, an awful blame before all men on both
sides of Post Office Street, before all men all over the world.
Blame! We are in it together, we two, we two accomplices. Tell
me! The war is over; it's all over. Life is coming, do you hear?
What do we do? What do we do?"
He put his right hand to his mouth that looked as if it were
suddenly chewing somethin g the wrong way. At that moment,
he looked at the window of MON REPOS. The burst of gunfire
came softly, very softly. It came with a choked whistling, like
the signal whistling of a friend or an ally. He put his hand to
his mouth as if he had suddenly chewed somethin g the wrong
way. Then he sank slowly, slowly to the asphalt, a few feet away
from the big black dog with the white spots, down to the left of
the billboard for the concert, a little to the right of the big black
dog lying on the pavement, the blood dry along its muzzle.
57
IDEAS, INC.
translated by Edwin Jahiel
The man with the felt hat went and stood in the entrance ,
his back to the frosted glass.
Mr. Kavadias, who was just then filing something in his
Cardex, suddenly saw him in the doorway, saw him take off
his hat and try to shake it dry.
The rain did not seem about to stop - on the contrary , it
was coming down harder and harder.
"That wise guy would stand right at the entrance ," said Mr.
Kavadias to himself. "This is an office, mister, not a rain shelter! "
He let it go at that and, controlling his anger, once more
bent over his Cardex and his cards.
When he glanced at the door again, a few minutes later, the
man was still there. Dimly through the frosted glass, his outline
was visible, and from time to time it became sharper against
the headlights of a passing car.
"It can't be helped. That's the trouble with offices on the
street!" said Mr. Kavadias talking to Mr. Kavadias, as was his
habit. "One day it's a rain shelter, the next day, a love nest!"
He recalled the incident of some months before, when two
lovers had stopped right at the entrance with no intentio n of
moving on until they had settled all their emotional problems.
Mr. Kavadias, noting that his office entrance was blocked, had
seen red, had gone outside, vociferating. "Sidewalks are public!"
They had answere d brazenly, and it took him a while to get rid
of them. The result was that Mr. Kavadias became overexcited,
his blood pressure went up, and he did not sleep all that night.
That was when he resolved to be patient in such situatio ns: with
his nervousness and his blood pressure he could not afford the
luxury of argumen ts.
"As long as it keeps raining this man won't leave the doorway,
even if it rains the whole night," he said, straight ening the glasses
that had slipped down his nose.
He abandoned his Cardex and went to his desk. He sat on his
revolving chair, took out his pack and lit a cigarette. Then he
selected one of the many folders on his desk and began reading
58
THE CHARIOTEER
a document. But he got nowhere : the man blocking his doorway
kept getting on his nerves.
The clock on the wall showed 8:07.
"If by 8:10 he hasn't gone, I'll step outside and tell him off,"
said Mr. Kavadias. "After all, he looks like someone I could
handle. Medium height, medium size. Unless he knows judo, which
I doubt."
Again Mr. Kavadias bent over the document he had begun to
read, but again he made no headway. This time he had no time
to read on, for the man with the felt hat opened the door rather
abruptly.
"I stood outside at first to shake the rain off myself," he said
as he came in. "Well, anyway, as much rain as I could shake off."
He shut the door, gently this time, and carefully wiped his
shoes on the mat.
"I'm afraid I didn't do very well, and I'll make a mess of
your place," he said.
"It doesn't matter. Please don't worry about it," said Mr.
Kavadias who had recovered from the unexpected turn of events.
"How stupid can one be!" he thought. "The man's a client - and
I was about to step outside and raise hell!"
"Some rain !" said the man, and he took a half step on tiptoe.
"Please come on in !" exclaimed Mr. Kavadias. "As I said,
don't worry about it. Come in, don't let it bother you !"
"Well, I bet you it'll rain like this all night. Good evening!"
"Good evening!" replied Mr. Kavadias, rather taken aback by
this belated "Good evening!"
"I'd be willing to bet it'll rain like this all night," repeated the
man, and he took another half step. Then he looked around him
as if looking for someone else who was not there. "So. I'd like
to speak to the Manager of Ideas, Inc," he said.
Mr. Kavadias again pushed the glasses up his nose and stood
as straight as he could.
"I am the Manager of Ideas, Inc.!" he said, stressing his
words as though he wanted mostly to convince himself.
"Oh !" said the man, as if he had suddenly heard something
totally unexpected.
This "Oh !" confirmed the displeasure which Mr. Kavadias
felt towards a man who failed to grasp immediately that he was
Ideas, Inc.
59
talking to the Manager of Ideas, Inc.
"I don't look like a Manager to him," he thought. "Yet I am,
I am the Manager I"
"Fine! Splendid," said the man, and he took a full step
forward.
He had now come into a stronger light, and Mr. Kavadias
was able to have a good look at him: one of those men who are
thought of as "little men," not much more than five feet four,
thin, pale, timid-looking.
"Sit down, sir!" said Mr. Kavadias.
"I'm afraid, it's rather late ... ," said the man with the hat,
a brown hat, as though he hesitated to sit down.
"Late? Not at all! Ideas, Inc. is open from nine a.m. to nine
p.m. through lunch, too," said Mr. Kavadias. "The better to serve
its clients. The time, the time is now 8:11. You can see it's not
at all late."
"Fine ! Splendid," said the man and finally sat down. "Your
idea, sir, to open Ideas, Inc. is extraordinari ly original. It's the
first and only Ideas Service in our country, isn't it?"
"It certainly is. You're very kind !"
"I mean it! I've heard a great deal about Ideas, Inc.. Your
reputation ...."
The phone rang.
"Excuse me," interrupted Mr. Kavadias. "We also have clients
that phone in requests for ideas."
He went around the desk and picked up the receiver:
"Hello! Yes, this is Ideas, Inc. Yes, the Manager. Good evening I Mr. Who? Agno what? Anagnostopulos? Anagnostopulos?
My sergeant-majo r in the Army was called Anagnostopulos. How's
that? Doctor Anagnostopulos. Then it's just the name. So, please
go ahead, Doctor. An idea for a sentimental story? Nothing could
be easier I Ideas, Inc., Doctor, has the richest file of ideas for
sentimental stories. You may select from our collection whatever
idea attracts you most, moves you the most. Yes, daily, nine a.m.
to nine p.m. without interruption. Oh, yes! Would you specify,
Doctor, if you want your story plain or with filling? What I
mean by this? I mean, do you want just sentiment or a bit of
adventure thrown in? Well, Ideas, Inc., you see, has all kinds,
for all tastes. My own opinion? Frankly, I'd rather it included a
60
THE CHARIOTEER
few adventures. You sprinkle a bit of adventure on a sentiment
and it tastes better. Don't you think so? Fine! Right, I'll expect
you tomorrow. Thank you for calling! Good-bye, Doctor. Goodbye!"
Mr. Kavadias hung up and went toward the man with the
brown hat.
"At last we'll have some peace!" he said to him. "I apologize
for the delay, but Ideas, Inc. is incredibly busy. Clients come in,
telephone calls, mail from the provinces, telegrams. You wouldn't
believe it! So, we were saying?"
The man wiped the brim of his hat with his sleeve.
"We were saying? We were talking about Ideas, Inc.. I congratulate you sincerely, really sincerely, sir. Your initiative is
wonderful, indeed. It honors our country. It honors Greece. Greece,
the eternal pioneer of civilization, the very Greece that gave to
all people the light of civilization. The 'Greek Miracle' goes on,
throughout the ages. The Helleno-Christian civilization."
"This fellow must be a civil servant. And low-ranking, at
that," thought Mr. Kavadias. "They must have assigned to him
some oration. Independence Day is near. So he's come to ask me
for a suggestion for the Eulogy. I bet he's here for the Eulogy!"
"Fine! Splendid," said the man.
"Frankly, I am especially flattered, flattered and deeply
touched by your opinion of Ideas, Inc.," said Mr. Kavadias. "But
I feel that on this fortification, the bulwark of Ideas, Inc., I am
only paying back a debt, a debt to society, to all our fellow
humans who are in need of ideas. Ideas, Inc. is not here to make
money. It is, just as its name implies, it is an idealistic, a purely
idealistic effort. For a nominal fee, it places at one's disposal
ideas about all the subjects that can possibly interest man, the
man of today in the context of his life. About all the subjects
of life!"
The telephone rang again. Mr. Kavadias straightened his
glasses.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I told you, this phone won't leave me
alone. But what can I do?"
He went to pick up the receiver:
"Yes, Ideas, Inc.. Oh, hello Mr. Mylonas! How are you? And
how is Mrs. Mylonas? And the children? Everybody's well? I'm
Ideas, Inc.
61
rlelighted! So, the idea for a family celebration that Ideas, In~.
gave you turned out well? How's that? Great? You're much ~uo
kind, Mr. Mylonas! Always at your service. And today you wish?
How? For a declaration of love! An idea for love confession? Yes,
of course! Ideas, Inc. has everything, Mr. Mylonas. Everything !
Right. An idea for a declaration of love. What? To a student?
A high-school girl at the Arsakeion? Well, I must say that this
case is, you realize, a particular case, special. I beg your pardon?
For a girl who is a boarder at the Arsakeion? Well, now, this
is getting more and more special. All right! I'll take care of it.
I'll plan something specifically for you, Mr. Mylonas. Something
extra-special. And exclusive. Right! Exclusive! Just for you! Of
course, the price will have to be different. Agreed. Discretion?
Are you serious, Mr. Mylonas? Discretion is the foundation Ideas,
Inc. is built on! Total discretion! So, to repeat: an idea for a
declaration of love to a boarder at the Arsakeion girls' school.
Fine. Good night, Mr. Mylonas. My respects to Mrs. Mylonas.
And give the children my love, all four of them!"
Again he straightene d his glasses and returned to the man
with the brown hat who was reading a sign framed on the wall,
under the clock,
THE WORLD IS RUN
BY WOMEN
AND BY IDEAS
"You see the Cardex by the corner?" asked Mr. Kavadias.
"All the themes of life are there, in good order. All of them!
Each theme or situation has its card. Ideas, thousands of ideas!"
"Great!" said the man. "Great! I can see that the organizatio n
of Ideas, Inc. is faultless, up-to-date, rational."
"Precisely ! Everything is in order in the Cardex. Whatever
concerns man in his life, all the themes of life are there, in the
Cardex. For all the themes of life, Ideas, Inc. has ideas. We have
a stock of ideas for every circumstance, for every aspect of life."
"Fine! Splendid," said the man, and again he rubbed his
sleeve on his hat.
"So, what about yourself?"
"So, about myself," said the man; now his voice was different,
somewhat deeper, somewhat warmer. "So, myself, sir. I want an
idea, an idea about death."
62
THE CHARIOTEER
The conception for Ideas, Inc. had come to Mr. Kavadias
precisely the way all great ideas are born, suddenly and without
premeditation.
The facts of the case, in their general lines, were as follows :
the previous September, Mr. Kavadias had sent his carefully
typed story, "The Adventures of a Tender Heart" to the fiction
contest of the Literary Review and had never in the least doubted
that the first prize would be unanimously awarded to him.
Indeed, because of his absolute certainty about the prize, he
had had a new suit made, black with a thin white stripe, especially
for the occasion. He was to wear it for the first time on the night
of the awards, at the special meeting which would be a literary
event and a social occasion, too.
That new suit was no simple matter for Mr. Kavadias. At the
time, he was in a tight spot financially, but when had he been
otherwise? He had reached the age of forty-four and had not
yet settled on a profession. "A free-lance observer of life," Mr.
Kavadias used to say about Mr. Kavadias.
In other words, to have ordered that new suit, Mr. Kavadias
must have been one-hundred-percent confident about winning the
first prize for the "Adventures of a Tender Heart." At any rate,
the prize-money, which was considerable, would have more than
paid for the suit. Not to mention the glory.
The story, "Adventures of a Tender Heart" was Mr. Kava..
dias' first encounter with literature, the first and the last! For
Mr. Kavadias was awarded neither the first prize, nor the second,
nor the third. He was left with his new suit, black with a thin
white stripe.
All this came as a blow to Mr. Kavadias. To the many other
adventures of his tender heart - for, of course, the "tender
heart" of the story was his own - to the many adventures of his
tender heart, one more had been added.
On the evening of the awards, Mr. Kavadias, whose judgment
had turned out to be a misjudgment, was a very unhappy man.
He was home, and he chainsmoked, but the cigarettes did not
take away his sadness - on the contrary, his sorrow increased.
So, for the first time, he put on the new suit and went out for
a drink.
He sat in a corner of a dimly-lit bar, drinking one brandy
63
Ideas, Inc.
after another. He had brought along the latest issue of the
Literary Review which had come out that very morning with
the results of the contest and the Jury's comments on all the
stories which had been submitted, with no exception.
Bitterly, he read over and over the part about his own story:
"The story by Mr. Kavadias, 'Adventures of a Tender Heart'
is not successful. On the other hand, it is undeniable that the
author has the divine gift of invention. Mr. Kavadias has countless and, indeed, original ideas, torrents of ideas, and the Jury
feels duty-bound to stress this point."
So, it was while Mr. Kavadias was drinking brandy after
brandy, smoking cigarette after cigarette, reading and rereading
the Jury's opinion of the "Adventures of a Tender Heart," it was
just then that the idea for Ideas, Inc. came to him.
He found and rented a room on the ground floor of the
building on 30a Veranzerou Street, a fairly spacious room, opening to the street, and complete with telephone. He placed an
advertisement in the newspapers :
IDEAS, INC.
We put at your disposal ideas about ,any subject that concerns
man in his life.
Ideas for organizing fan~ily reunions, artistic events, celebrations and memorials.
Ideas for writing various texts, be they of a political, social,
or patriotic nature.
Ideas for the composition of fiction or of stage plays, in verse
or in prose.
Ideas for parliamentary speeches, both for members of the
majority and for members of the opposition.
Total discretion.
30a Veranzerou Street. Phone: 515- 550.
Office hours: 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., without interruption.
There was no need for Mr. Kavadias to repeat his advertisement several times. Clients began to cross the threshold of Ideas,
Inc., and they brought others, and the others brought still more
clients. And as time went on, the flow kept increasing.
Thus did Mr. Kavadias put to good use his "divine gift" of
64
THE CHARIOTEER
invention, not by writing more stories, but by creating Ideas, Inc.
on the ground floor of the building on 30a Veranzerou Street.
Naturally, every time he handled a case, he supplied the idea
and nothing more. He did not become involved in its execution.
He had no responsibility for the execution. Carrying out the
idea was the client's business. In this fashion, he avoided the
predicament of the "Adventures of a Tender Heart"; that is, a
brilliant conception but a poor realization.
All was going well, better than well, splendidly. His customers
had become live, free publicity for Ideas, Inc.. The Cardex file
kept getting fatter with new entries for ideas; his stock of ideas
was steadily enriched with new variations.
He had many ambitions for Ideas, Inc.. For the immediate
future, his plan was to be open around the clock, so as to make
of Ideas, Inc. a First Aid Station for Ideas.
The office had been open for seven months now, and Mr.
Kavadias' finances were far from problematic.
The office had been open for seven months now, and Mr.
Kavadias was already the possessor of seven new suits, in different shades and patterns.
The man waited a few seconds for Mr. Kavadias to reply
or at least to register some kind or reaction, but Mr. Kavadias
stood still, looking at him as though he had suddenly taken too
big a bite of a pear and had the piece stuck in his throat.
"An idea for death ...." repeated the man, to break the awkward silence.
Mr. Kavadias could only think, "So, it wasn't the Eulogy for
Independence Day!"
"Well?" said the man.
"Well?" said also Mr. Kavadias, who, having nothing else to
add, smiled. Of course, he realized immediately that this smile
was absurd, but he could not do anything about it: he had already
smiled.
The man stood up and went towards the Cardex file.
"Well?" he repeated.
"Well, I mean .... An idea for death," said Mr. Kavadias.
Ideas, Inc.
65
"Well, you certainly have a sense of humor. At first sight you
don't look the type."
He was about to smile again but he had no time for it. The
man came and stood before him, faced him, and looked at him in
silence, looked at him straight in the eyes.
"Damn it, it itches," said Mr. Kavadias to himself, because
whenever anyone looked at him like this, he felt itchy.
The man fingered the brim of his hat.
"My dear Manager, this has nothing to do with humor," he
said slowly, as though he were dictating a letter. "This has
nothing to do with humor. I told you: an idea for death."
Once more the enervatin g silence set in.
"Mind you!" said the man with some haste, as though he
wished to make an importan t additiona l point that he had
neglected. "Mind you! Of course, I ought to have told you right
away! Not any kind of death. But an idea for an absurd death."
His right hand made a small movement in the air, a vague
shape. Mr. Kavadias followed the shape in the air as though he
expected it to produce an explanation.
"Not for any kind of death, a routine death, a commonplace
death. No, my dear Manager! I repeat: I am not asking for an
idea for a traditiona l, standardi zed death. No! I want an idea for
a death that matches our world, this world we've been living in
all these years. A death that fits the world we live in, therefore ,
~n absurd death."
Mr. Kavadias said nothing, then again nothing. He just managed to reach his revolving armchair , he sat down, and he
waited.
With a sudden movement, the man put on his hat, straighte ned
with his right hand the brim made shapeless by the rain; then,
his hat on his head, he took a few steps. Finally he went towards
the door; he looked through the frosted glass. He was too snort
to see well, so he stood on tiptoe.
"It's still raining," he said loudly, as though Mr. Kavadias
were no longer in the room. "It's raining hard, and it's not about
to stop. It will be like this all night."
He turned to Mr. Kavadias, walked up to the desk, took off
his hat, as though he had just arrived.
"I'll pay you well!" he said. "Whatev er you ask. I'll pay
66
THE CHARIOTEER
whatever you ask. My dear Manager, I must have an idea for a
death which is as absurd as our world. I'm sure you agree that
our world, this postwar world, is an absurd world. Isn't it?"
"I'll tell you," said Mr. Kavadias. "I must confess that my
own circumstances . . . well, various circumstances . . . have not
given me the opportunity to study this question in depth."
The man made a gesture of impatience.
"You don't need to have 'studied' it. My dear sir, what has
been going on around us all these years is not a problem of
philosophy. One does not need philosophy. It's enough for one to
live with all these things around us, things that have not stopped
happening all these years, since the war ended. To live among
these things with one's eyes open, my dear Manager! But objectively! You understand me?"
"Yes, I suppose so, yes."
"Therefore, if you live in our world, your eyes open, and with
objectivity, you can only stand before the sight of our world
of today, stand and cry out, 'But this world is absurd!' Yes, my
dear Manager."
"Absurd," repeated Mr. Kavadias.
The man took out a pack of cigarettes from his coat-pocket
and examined it.
"Could I have a cigarette," he asked Mr. Kavadias. "I'm out
of cigarettes and hadn't noticed earlier."
He accepted the cigarette that Mr. Kavadias offered him but
not a light from his lighter.
"Thank you, I prefer matches."
He lit a match, held it in his hand; it was almost burned out
when he put it to his cigarette.
"I know this is fatiguing. I'm sorry, but I have to give you
all the facts, all the elements, so that you may be able to give
me what I need: an idea for an absurd death."
He went once more to the door, looked outside.
"What a rain!" he said. "It's as though the sky is trying to
empty all of its reserves tonight."
He remained for a short while by the frosted glass which the
rain kept pelting. He took a few puffs, then turned to Mr.
Kavadias:
"I'll be brief. Anyway, essentially things are simple, very
Ideas, Inc.
67
simple. All right, I'll be brief. The war ended some years ago.
The 'Second World War' they call it for identification. Exactly
what happened in that war - you know it very well. Millions
of people all over this earth gave their lives. Blood, a lot of blood
was spilled. All this with a vision of the world after the war,
so that the world we all longed for might become a reality. That
world was to be the new world, different, a world that would
give to all mankind freedom and peace and bread. Well, that
world arrived, and what is it? What? It's an absurd world!
Absurd!"
He stared into Mr. Kavadias' eyes as he had before, and
Mr. Kavadias once more began to feel itchy.
"An absurd world," the man went on. "To start with, the
postwar world brought no peace. The war had hardly ended when
the fear of a new war set in. And, to waste no time, 'local' wars
here and there, which, of course, means blood again, a lot of
blood. And if the next big war breaks out ...."
Mr. Kavadias lit a cigarette. The man was standing, fiddling
with his hat brim again.
"You can't possibly tell me that our world is not absurd. And
how absurd ! Monstrously large amounts are spent on armaments
while hunger goes on as mighty as ever on our earth. Everyone
spreads the gospel of freedom. And as soon as you become 'one
of them' you realize - but it's too late - what they meant by
'freedom.' So?"
He went back to the door.
"So it's raining. It's raining. It's still raining," he said. "But
of course, the rain is unimportant. What's important is what I'm
looking for, an idea for an absurd death. For a death in the
image and the likeness of our times. Yes, my dear Manager, an
idea for a death which is not of our times, a death befitting other
times, a petty bourgeois death, a traditional death, such a thought
torments me. Think of it, my dear Manager! Think of such a
death in the world we live in, at a time like this. A 'proper'
death, with warm slippers, in a warm room, in a warm bed,
with family and friends around. A death with love and tenderness, and dignity. No, I can't accept such a death, sir! I can't
accept such a death today, a rational death. A rational death in
68
THE CHARIOTEER
our time, in the world we live in - such a death is unacceptable,
Sir! Unacceptable!"
He stopped and stroked his forehead with his hand.
"No, I can't accept a rational death!" he said with renewed
vehemence. "Such a death is an insult to pain, an insult to the
deep pain of our world, of our time. After all, an absurd death
is, in effect, the only rational conclusion of a life as irrational
as ours."
He stopped and looked at Mr. Kavadias, who had left his
armchair; then the man went close to him.
"Well?" he said.
"Well?" said Mr. Kavadias, retreating a half step.
"An idea for an absurd death."
Mr. Kavadias was wriggling his fingers nervously.
"I regret it, I sincerely regret it, but I do not believe that ...
that I can be of service to you," he said and wriggled his fingers
again. "It's not that I'm unwilling. I am sorry. Ideas, Inc.,
as I commented earlier, has a wealth of ideas for every aspect
of life. Yes, for every aspect of life. However, not .... "
"However, nor for death," interrupted the man with the brown
hat, somewhat sarcastically. "Right? Isn't that what you wanted
to say, my dear Manager? However, not for death. Ideas, Inc.
has a wealth of ideas for every aspect of life, but not for death.
Death. After all, what is death, my dear Manager? Isn't death
'an aspect of life'?"
Mr. Kavadias did not quite understand; he felt uneasy.
"Death is 'an aspect of life,' my dear sir, a basic, a critical
'aspect of life.' A vital aspect, if you prefer. A beautiful death
comes as a justification for a life that has wallowed in misery.
A brave, manly death, a death without compromises, such a
death is an act of life. It is 'an aspect of life'. Well?"
Mr. Kavadias grasped the knot of his necktie.
"I regret, I just told you, I regret it, but I have never had
the opportunity to study such matters. I am sorry. Ideas, Inc.
has a huge stock of ideas. Here, in this Cardex."
He went to the Cardex file and opened it.
"This Cardex already holds 3,317 cards. But the subject you
are interested in ... Look, here we have ...." he said and began
to flip his cards. " 'Dean.' We have 'Dean.' 'Dean, applying to,'
Ideas, Inc.
69
'Dean, being promoted to,' 'Dean, dismissing a,' Then we go directly to 'Debutante.' Well, there is no 'Death.' See for yourself. There is no 'Death.' I regret it. I sincerely regret it."
"I, too, my dear Manager, regret the fact that I will be
obliged to disturb you again. I'll come back to see you one more
time. Today is Tuesday. So, Thursday, Thursday, the day after
tomorrow, I'll be back again, at Ideas, Inc. Thursday evening.
Let's settle on a time. Well, at 8 :20. Fine! Thursday evening,
the day after tomorrow, I'll be here at 8 :20, at exactly 8 :20.
I'm giving you 48 hours to find me an idea for an absurd death.
I hope that you understand my case fully. I need, I need urgently, I need vitally, an idea for an absurd death! I am sorry,
but this is something beyond my will. I will pay you well.
Whatever you ask, I will pay without discussion. Fine! The day
after tomorrow, Thursday evening, exactly at 8 :20."
He went quickly to the door, opened it; the rain came through
the opening. Without putting on his hat, he crossed the threshold,
suddenly stopped halfway, looked at Mr. Kavadias, was about
to say something. But he said nothing. He went into the night
and the rain.
"Twenty-six past. Eight twenty-six!" said Mr. Kavadias aloud,
all alone on Thursday evening in the office of Ideas, Inc., while
he walked up and down the room. "That joker certainly fooled
me! First he upsets me, then he vanishes."
He went and sat on the revolving armchair.
"An idea for an absurd death!" he said sarcastically. "The
blasted joker! How did he manage to dream up all that!"
He swivelled to the right and picked up the inside telephone
which had a line to the cafe in the building. He asked for coffee.
"How silly I am! I took the man seriously. And I expected
him to come back tonight. Eight twenty! Exactly at eight
twenty! It's now eight twenty-nine - not a peep, not a soul.
The jerk! The fool! The foolish jerk!"
The waiter came in with the coffee.
"It's raining," he said, leaving the coffee on the desk. "And
it keeps falling harder.''
Mr. Kavadias had not noticed that it had begun to rain. In
70
THE CHARIOTEER
a while he would shut up shop; he couldn't leave before nine,
of course. At nine he would leave; he would take a taxi and
go to the Attikon Cinema, to see the latest film of Marilyn
Monroe, who, according to the newspaper, was very sexy.
To tell the truth, during the intervening Wednesday, Mr.
Kavadias had thought about the man with the brown hat once
or twice; then his regular work absorbed him so that he thought
no more of him. On Thursday, he almost forgot him until noon.
But from noon on, and as the hours went by, the man with
the hat had stuck in his mind, had plagued him and would not
leave him alone. He did not know what sort of man he was; he
couldn't know. If he came, it would not be pleasant at all for Mr.
Kavadias. Naturally, he had not a single idea to give him for
an absurd death, absolutely not a single idea. As 8 :20 neared,
he could feel his tension getting worse.
"Thirty-two past," he said. "Finished, this affair is definitely over. This ridiculous affair!"
He rose and turned off one light, the strong one; there was a
small light in the office. He took his pack of cigarettes and
put it in the pocket of his jacket, then picked up the newspaper.
"Ready to go," he said. "Tonight, I'll close up earlier."
Suddenly he changed his mind about Marilyn Monroe. He
thought he might go and see a good Western. He went back to
his revolving armchair and sat down, opened the paper and
began to look for movie advertisements.
"I realize that my lateness is inexcusable," said the man
with the brown hat.
Mr. Kavadias put his paper down, raised his eyes; he had
not heard him come in.
"Good evening, Manager. Forgive me for not greeting you
the moment I came in. If I remember correctly, the other night
I was guilty of the same bad manners. And tonight I am doubly
guilty. I'm late, terribly late. Anyway, I apologize. I am sorry.
I am sorry I was not here at the time we had mentioned."
He was very wet, even more so on his shoulders. He wore
neither overcoat nor raincoat, only a jacket. In his right hand,
he held the brown hat which was dripping. In his left, he held
a small green case with hotel labels on it.
Ideas, Inc.
71
"I was thinking .... It crossed my mind that you might not
come," said Mr. Kavadias, who was still startled.
It seemed to him that the man smiled.
"Understandably so, my dear Manager. But, here I am.
Late, of course. But I made it. Well, what have you got for me?"
He left the little case on a chair and waited.
"Nothing," said Mr. Kavadias.
"Meaning?" said the man.
"Meaning ... nothing," said Mr. Kavadias in a firmer tone.
"I am sorry I was unable to have something ready for you. But,
you see, ideas, ideas are not like canned food that is always
available. Ideas are a matter of inspiration. Often they are
terribly perverse."
The man looked at Mr. Kavadias without uttering a word,
went towards the door, stopped.
"So, it's nothing! The idea for an absurd death. Nothing!
Ideas, Inc. cannot furnish me with an idea for an absurd death."
"I regret it. I repeat, I regret it profoundly. You are a
client who is ... an exceptional client ... an impeccable client ....
I am sorry that I am unable, in spite of all my good will, to
be of service to you."
The man's fingers were agitated.
"You don't want to be of service to me ! That is the correct
expression. You don't want to! But I'm going to have the last
word," he said, and in his right hand, there was a small gun
of plated metal.
His clients had not accustomed Mr. Kavadias to such behavior. Then there was the matter of his blood pressure and
the general state of his nerves, so that his feeling of being frozen
before the two nostrils of the revolver was perfectly justified.
"You don't want to be of service to me!" repeated the man
while pointing his gun at Mr. Kavadias. "Isn't that it? Fine!
I hope that now you will be of service to me !"
Mr. Kavadias looked again at the nostrils of the gun, was
about to think something, failed.
"Well?" said the man. "One last chance. I give you one last
chance. I'll pay anything. I'm in a hurry, do you understand?
I'm in a hurry, sir! An idea for an absurd death. Come, my
dear Manager! An idea for an absurd death!"
72
THE CHARIOTEER
Mr. Kavadias could not utter a word. He was frozen all over.
He was only wishing, wishing with all his heart for someone
to come in just then, anyone- a client, an acquaintance, the
waiter with the coffee tray.
As though he had transmitted his thought to the man with
the small, plated gun, he saw him suddenly step back to the door
and with a quick gesture, lock it. He even gave the key a double
turn.
"Well? Nothing?" he repeated, coming once more toward
Mr. Kavadias. "Nothing?"
"Nothing," stammered Mr. Kavadias. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry,
but nothing, nothing."
"It's all right, my dear Manager. I had anticipated this
'nothing,' my dear Manager, and I took measures."
With his gun and with his eyes still staring at Mr. Kavadias,
the man went to the chair and picked up his small case. He
picked it up and placed it on the edge of Mr. Kavadias' desk.
Mr. Kavadias looked at the small case. Its corners were battered. He could not understand the meaning of that case.
"Listen. Put your ear to the case. And you will hear a
heartbeat, the heartbeat of a small but powerful time-bomb. Yes,
you will hear the heartbeat of the small time-bomb that I have
placed, ever so gently, in the case. I was positive that you would
not give me a single idea for an absurd death, my dear Manager.
I had foreseen your refusal, the cruel 'Nothing' of your reply,
just now. Well? Why look at me? Listen instead to the heartbeat in there!"
Naturally, Mr. Kavadias leaned over and gasped. He heard
the bomb pulsing, pulsing like a heart.
He could only say, "It can't be!" and he felt sick.
The man laughed, a small, dry laugh.
"But it can be. It is, dear Manager! At nine o'clock, at nine
o'clock it will explode. At the time you lock the office every
night. With this little difference: you will as usual lock Ideas,
Inc. at nine, for the night, for the night, but also forever.
Forever! But you can't complain, my dear Manager. In this
'Forever' I'll be along with you, and many others from this
building. My little bomb is very strong. You'll see for yourself
in a matter of minutes, at nine o'clock precisely!"
Ideas, Inc.
73
His eye caught the coffee cup and the glass.
"Do it now. Do it right now. Call on the inside line and
tell the waiter not to come for the coffee tray. Say you have
some important business and that you don't want to be interrupted. That's it!"
Of course, Mr. Kavadias could not refuse. He had no choice.
He picked up the receiver.
"The coffee-shop? Kavadias speaking. Yes, Ideas, Inc.. Would
you mind picking up the tray in the morning? Yes? Right. I'm
in the middle of an important discussion, a very important discussion, and I don't want to be disturbed. All right. Thank you."
He put down the receiver and stood with his back to the
wall. He felt unwell. He felt like throwing up.
"Six minutes to go. Six minutes and all this will be ashes,
ashes!" said the man and, seeing Mr. Kavadias raise his right
hand to his right ear, he shouted: "Stand still!"
"My ear itches," said Mr. Kavadias unhappily. "Can't I
even ... ?"
"No, you can't!" cut in the man. "Quiet! Do you hear my
little bomb ticking away? Do you hear?"
Mr. Kavadias said nothing, he did not dare say anything,
he felt sick, terribly sick.
The man went up to the small case and petted it, his gun
still pointed at Mr. Kavadias.
"My little bomb," he said, and his voice was affectionate.
"My little bomb, my dear little bomb. Well, five minutes, my
dear manager, five minutes and some seconds. Damn it! - my
left shoelace has come undone. That's a bad sign! Had it been
the right one it would make no difference, none at all. But the
left one! It means that something bad will happen to me. I
must tie it right away, perhaps I'll ward off the trouble."
With his right hand pointing the gun at Mr. Kavadias, he
leaned over to tie his shoelace with his left hand. From where
he stood, Mr. Kavadias could not see the man's shoes. He could
only see his right hand, the hand that held the small, plated gun.
"Blast !" said the man. "I can't do it. Yet I must tie this
lace!"
Suddenly, he placed his gun on the desk and leaned over to
tie the lace with both hands. What followed, of course, was
74
THE CHARIOTEER
lightning-fast . Mr. Kavadias grabbed the gun, in a flash he
grabbed it, in a flash he was pointing it at the man.
Barely a second had passed since the man had put his gun
on the desk. "How stupid of me!" he exclaimed. "But let the
shoelace stay undone."
But it was late, too late. The gun had traded targets now.
"My dear Manager," he stammered. "That's, that's unfair."
He tried to jump Mr. Kavadias, to take away the small,
plated gun, but he did not reach it. The bullet reached him in
mid-jump, just one bullet but straight to his heart. His arms
folded, then his knees folded, he crumpled and lay with his
right side against the desk of Mr. Kavadias.
What followed was like a whirlwind: Mr. Kavadias charged
to the door. The clock on the wall said four minutes to nine.
He charged to the door, he unlocked it, he opened it, he went
outside, he started to yell.
The street became a bedlam. The building became a bedlam.
Some people ran up and down without knowing what they were
doing. Others came out on the street in nightdresses and in
slippers. Mr. Kavadias kept shouting that the building would
blow up at nine o'clock. Panic set in. Finally someone braver
than the rest ran to the office of Ideas Inc.. The others ran
across the street, as far as they could. The man opened the
small case. The clock said two minutes to nine.
"There's no bomb in here!" shouted the man who had opened
the case. "Do you hear? There's no bomb in here!"
Then Mr. Kavadias and the others took heart and came to
have a look.
"There's definitely no bomb in this little case," said the man.
"Just an alarm-clock, an old alarm-clock, and some underwear."
"I don't get it," said Mr. Kavadias looking at the alarmclock. "It's not possible! I heard the bomb ticking. I heard it
distinctly!"
"He took the alarm-clock for a bomb !" said someone.
"So it's not a bomb!" said Mr. Kavadias, almost with disappointment.
There were many and sundry comments. Traffic on Veranzerou Street had come to a halt because of the crowd that had
Ideas, Inc.
75
gathered. The tenants of the building who had run out in their
nightdresses were berating Mr. Kavadias.
A policeman then came and Mr. Kavadias told his story again,
the man's first visit, his second, the small, plated gun, the left
shoelace that had come undone.
The siren of the police car that was approaching there could
be heard in the distance.
"What did you say about the shoelace?" said the policeman
who examined the body without touching it. "What was it exactly you said about the left shoelace?"
"I told you it had come undone and he tried to tie it because
he thought it was bad luck. But he didn't manage to tie it because ..• "
"That's enough!" said the policeman roughly. "For your information, sir, there are no untied shoelaces here. Do you hear?
Both shoelaces are tied. In fact, tightly tied!"
Mr. Kavadias came nearer. The policeman was right. Both
laces were tied.
"I don't understand," he said. "I can't understand a thing!"
Then he saw the eyes of the man with the brown hat fixed
on him, wide open, and Mr. Kavadias, before these eyes, again
felt itchy.
"I don't understand anything either," said the policeman and
he looked suspiciously at Mr. Kavadias.
"Of course, I did not see the lace. But I was sure it was untied," said Mr. Kavadias, trying not to look at the dead man's
eyes.
The police car siren sounded nearer.
"The only thing I do understand," said a tall fellow with a
green tie, "the only thing I understand, is that this death is an
absurd death."
76
THE CHARIOTEER
THE JUNGLE
translated by Edwin Jahiel
At the first "Get him !" he began running - running with all
his might.
On the heels of the first "Get him!" came a second, and after
it the third and the fourth and fifth and the sixth. Each new
"Get him!" made him run faster and faster and faster. All of
them, continually, from everywhere, shouted, "Get him!" But
they were not shouting; no, they were not shouting; they were
shooting! All of them, continually, from everywhere, were shooting at him, shooting these two, small, poisonous, implacable
bullets : "Get him!"
Through the rain of such bullets, he ran to get away, he 1·an
continually to get away, he had to get away! But they, too, all
of them, continually, from everywhere kept shooting, shooting
at him, steadily and mercilessly. They shot from the right, from
the left, from the sidewalk, from across the street, from newsstands, from trees, from arcades, from street corners, from the
middle of the street, from parked cars, from moving cars, from
shops, from houses, from buildings, from windows, from the bay
windows of living rooms, from the small windows of toilets, from
skylights, from roofs, from courtyards, from balconies, from
terraces, from basements, from sewers.
And he, he had to get away, to get away no matter how!
Where he ran, how long he ran, he had no idea. He knew
nothing at that time; he thought of nothing at that time. At that
time, his entire being consisted of only the sudden, wild instinct
within him, the wild instinct to escape, to escape no matter how!
In his mad flight he went through unknown streets, streets
that he could not recall. Perhaps that was the first time he had
gone that way. He ran without plan; his instinct led him well,
pointed him in the right direction. He fell upon some women
chattering in the middle of the street and he scattered them. He
knocked down two or three trash-cans left on the sidewalk, he
knocked down a bicycle, he entered a construction site. He entered
a courtyard that had another exit on a back street; and while
hurling himself forward, he sank into a sea of underclothes
hung out to dry, and butting his head over and over against
The Jungle
77
shorts and slips he finally managed to surface and come out
through the other exit on the back street, and to run again, run,
run, run. And suddenly he stopped.
Where he had come to was a great emptiness. He looked
around carefully. He had escaped! Again he looked around carefully. Yes, he had escaped! He went and sat down on a rock
farther on.
"I have escaped!" he said aloud. And immediately he got up
from the rock. He was exhilarated, he had escaped, he had
escaped!
"I have escaped!" he said, and he gave a kick, a good strong
kick to the rock, and his foot hurt, it hurt a lot, but he did not
care. The only thing he cared about was that he had escaped,
that somehow, he had escaped!
Then he saw the dog. A thin, dark dog, thin and long, longer
than average. It was standing some fifteen or twenty feet away
and was inspecting him.
"I have escaped!" he shouted at the dog. "You hear? I have
escaped! I'm telling you, I have escaped!"
The dog looked at him in that mysterious manner that dogs
and people share alike; one cannot tell which is which, that is,
whether they have understood everything or have understood
absolutely nothing.
"I have escaped!" he shouted again at the dog which had not
budged from its place. "Friend, I have escaped!"
Then he went and sat once more on the rock, while the dog
stepped back a little.
"How did I manage to run so!" he said. "How did I! Where
did I find the strength ! Even when I used to eat every day,
regularly every day, even then I couldn't run so. And yet I haven't
had a bite for ...."
He began to count the days on the fingers of his right hand.
But he ran out of fingers and he used two, three more of his
left hand.
"Eight days, eight days without a bite. And I managed to run
so! It's because I had to get away, to get away no matter how!
This urge to escape, that's what gave me the strength to run, to
run, and to get away!"
78
THE CHARIOTEER
He pulled up a plant near him; it was like wheat, he bit into
it. It was bitter and he spat it out.
"I have escaped!" he said.
And then, a light seemed suddenly to be turning on in his
mind.
"I escaped? What does 'I escaped' mean?"
He looked to see where the dog was. He saw it far away a black spot.
Now he could visualize the entire episode, there, on Adrianou
Street, at the end of Andrianou toward Monastiraki. He had been
going to Aiolou Street. 22 Aiolou Street was the address he
wanted. "Continental Transport Office, 22 Aiolou Street, 7th
floor," said the newspaper, "room number 717." He had the
clipping in the pocket of his jacket. That office needed a clerk
with a high-school diploma, between 25 and 35 years old.
On that morning he had two "Clerk Wanted" clippings in
the pocket of his jacket, the right-hand pocket. The clipping for
the Continental Transport Office, for which he had first started
out, and the other one, 56 Piraeus Street, 0. E. Iplixian and Son,
where he would go afterwards, if nothing came of the first
possibility.
Far away, somewhere in the distance, a church clock struck
ten.
In his mind it was now clear, the entire episode: Adrianou
Street, at the end of Adrianou towards Monastiraki, turn right
on Aiolou Street for the Continental Transport Office, 22 Aio1ou
Street. Walking was hard, very hard, eight days and not a bite
to eat. Five months and some days out of work and looking all
over for employment, looking all over, all the time, climbing stairs
all the time, climbing stairs all the time, all the time, and nothing,
nothing!
"I have escaped! But it wasn't I; it wasn't meant for me,"
he said, and he wiped his sweat on his sleeve.
That episode, there, near the place where Adrianou and Aiolou
cross, was now clear in his mind. There he was, walking, dragging himself, and he heard, "Get him!" That "Get him!" was not
meant for him. Now that he was somewhat calmer, he knew
that the "Get him!" was not for him. He knew that he had done
nothing wrong; he knew only that he had been out of work for
The Jungle
79
five months and some days, and that he was hungry, too, hungry
for eight days. He had done nothing wrong; that "Get him!"
was not meant for him, and so far as he knew, no new law had
been passed for arresting the hungry, for arresting them like
this, on the street, simply because they dared be hungry, for
arresting them and dragging them straight to the Police Station.
Of course, new laws were being passed, lots of them these days,
but so far as he knew, none had passed for arresting the hungry.
Even so, at the first "Get him!" fear had ripped at his heart,
the fear of these days, of all these five months and some days
that had kept churning in his heart. He had suddenly been overcome by that fear, and he had started running to escape, to
escape no matter how!
That "Get him!" was for someone else, for whom, for what,
he did not know, but he had suddenly been overcome by the fear,
the fear. And with the first "Get him!" he had started running,
running. And with the second and the third and the fourth, and
all the other "Get him!", always one after another, in volleys,
mercilessly, like shots, all those "Get him!" had made him run
faster and faster and faster.
"I must be crazy," he said. "No, that's not it. I'm hungry.
The hunger, and this fear, this fear!"
The five months and some days that he had been wandering
in Athens, asking for work, begging for work, he had constantly
felt that fear, that feeling of being guilty, guilty and illegal, his
unemployment, his hunger, his wretchedness. They had put fear
in him, a wild, deep-rooted fear! He was not a man now; he was
an animal, a frightened animal, a dog, a frightened dog. An outlaw dog, outside the "good society" of dogs.
All the five months and some days that he had been wandering the streets of Athens, he had felt that fear, deeper and
deeper, wilder and wilder. He had been feeling that other people
looked at him curiously, suspiciously, that they kept watching
him, that something about him aroused suspicion - something,
a brand. That he was the Branded One among all the other
people, the others with the spotless, irreproachable faces.
Suddenly, that morning, while he was going to the Continental
Transport Office, 22 Aiolou Street, 7th floor, room 717, suddenly
80
THE CHARIOTEER
that fear, with the first "Get him!" had flared in him. And he
had started running, running to escape, to escape no matter how!
"It was that fear," he said. "It was that fear."
From his pocket he took the clipping of the newspaper, the
Kathimerini, the clipping about the Continental Transport Office.
He took it out and reread it:
"Wanted, clerk, 25-35 years, high-school diploma, Military
Service completed. Continental Transport Office, 22 Aiolou,
7th floor, room 717."
The church clock struck again; it struck once.
"A quarter past," he said. "A quarter past ten. Yet I must
go. Of course, I must go."
"How's that? For the position?" said the man with the thick
dark glasses. "Fine. Excellent."
He looked him over, as though he belonged to Internal Security.
Silently, he stood before the man with the thick dark glasses;
the stairs to the 7th floor had exhausted him; the building was
ancient and had no elevator.
In the inner office, the door of which was ajar, a typewriter
was clacking incessantly.
"So that's it? You came for the position," said the man. "Fine.
Excellent."
The inner door opened wider and a girl, petite and dark, came
out.
"Telephone call for you, sir. They want to speak to the
manager."
"The manager, he is!" he thought. "But how is it that I
didn't hear the telephone! It must be my hunger."
The man with the thick dark glasses did not rise from his
chair. He turned towards the girl and said, in an irritated tone,
"The phone? Who the hell is on the phone?"
The girl came nearer.
"It's from the Brotherhood of Theologians."
She had hardly finished saying this when the man jumped
as though a wasp had stung him, "Why didn't you say so, woman !
Say so! Does one keep such customers waiting?"
The Jungle
81
The man rushed to the inner office; the girl went along. He
was left alone, standing by the radiator, and he waited.
"My respects, Father, my respects!" he heard the man with
the thick dark glasses say. "Good morning to you! Of course,
Father. Absolutely. What? Fresh butter? What are you saying,
Father! Double A quality. Double A, I tell you. Sweet smelling.
The Lord willing, delivery is today. The sausages and the cream
cheese, the Lord willing, will arrive in the afternoon, early afternoon. Yes, Father. Always at your disposal. For you, what a
question? For the Brotherhood, always the best, nothing but the
best. Also, great news about something else. The Royal Pulp, yes.
The Lord willing, I'll take delivery any day this week. Yes, the
first shipment. Others will follow. The choicest Royal Pulp. How's
that? Nutritious? What a question, Father! Is it ever! Why, one
mouthful, a coffee-spoon, Father, gives you a whole bundle of
vitamins. What? I can't hear you well. The wine? Ah, the wine.
Don't worry; I've ordered for you something great! Nectar. Nectar
from Olympus. What? Sunday? The Council is on Sunday? You
don't have to worry about a thing, Father. The Continental
Transport Office is omnipresent, after the Lord, of course. Don't
worry, Father. The Lord willing, by Saturday night the wine
will be in your storeroom. Parole d'honneur! Such a wine, Father,
such nectar, you've never had in your cellar. I'll stake my reputation on it. Try it and see. You'll see what a wonderful Sunday
you'll spend, the Lord willing, you and the rest of the Council.
You embarrass me. I've done nothing, nothing at all. Just my
duty, my duty to the Brotherhood of Theologians. You're welcome. A good day to you, a good day to you !"
He heard the man with the thick dark glasses slam down the
telephone; then he heard him tell the girl something, but it was
not clear to him; then he saw the man come through the inner
door and rush straight at him, where he stood by the register,
rush so quickly that he was seized by fear.
"The Lord's Prayer!" shouted the man with the thick dark
glasses, aiming a finger at him so that it looked like a gun about
to shoot. "The Lord's Prayer! The Lord's Prayer! Recite the
Lord's Prayer. Come on! Stop looking like a half-wit! The Lord's
Prayer! Say it, dammit !"
He could not even move an inch; the man was there before
82
THE CHARIOTEER
him, aiming that thick dirty finger at him; he was numb with
fear. He knew the Lord's Prayer, he knew it all right, he had
known it all his life. But at that moment he could not recite a
word of the Lord's Prayer, not a word. At that moment he could
say nothing, do nothing. Fear was in his blood, that deep, wild
fear. Like someone hypnotized, he looked at the thick-yellow blackyellow green-yellow finger of the man facing him, and he wanted
to run away, to run outside, to run, to run, to escape the finger,
to escape the Lord's Prayer.
"Fine. Excellent," said the man, and he lowered his finger.
"Well, young man, the Continental Transport Office cannot use
you. The Lord's Prayer is the ticket for this office. No ticket,
no job here. Oh, we have our rules. I like things to be regular.
So, since you don't know the Lord's Prayer ... What did you think
this was all about? That's my private test, sir. Yes. My own test.
I got it from a psychologist, the Brotherhood of Theologians'
exclusive psychologist. I paid for it, of course. But now I have
my own test. He guaranteed it. It can't miss, he said. It can't
miss. Remember, he said, to get a good start, to rush the candidate and aim your finger at him. If he recites the Lord's Prayer
straightaway, he'll do. If he doesn't recite it at once, it's goodbye. Well, good-bye!"
By the first "good-bye" he had already left, he had slipped
by the door, he had opened it, he had gone into the half-lit, foulsmelling hallway, he had gone to the half-rotten, interminable
stairway, now he was going down the stairs, down quickly, as
quickly as he could.
Between the fourth and the third floor, perhaps between the
third and the second, he suddenly stopped. He recalled all the
Lord's Prayer, yes, all of it, every word. He stood still. Then,
with the strength born of desperation, the desperation that either
finishes you off or gives you unexpected strength, he began to
climb the stairs.
He got to the seventh floor, he ran, he ran through the halflit, foul-smelling hallway. Room 717 was there. He reached for the
door knob, but his hand remained suspended, he did not open
the door, he did not. Fear had crushed him, he could not open,
he could not. The man with the thick dark glasses was there,
behind the door, and as soon as he went inside the man would
The Jungle
83
shoot him with that thick-yellow black-yellow green-yellow yellowyellow finger.
He went out on the street, out on the streets, the morning
streets of Athens in the springtime. "Our Father," he kept saying while he walked, "Our Father," he kept saying, and the others
looked at him curiously, some were even winking. "Our Father,"
he kept saying. "Our Father, Our Father."
He felt such joy when he saw the big, wrought-iron door
with the sign "0. E. Iplixian and Son," that he went numb with
pleasure just as, earlier, he had gone numb with fear.
To calm down, to get over his excitement, he paused a minute.
Yes, this big wrought-iron door with the sign "0. E. Iplixian and
Son" was on the ground floor of the building, 56 Piraeus Street.
This time there would be no stairs to climb, no more stairs; everything was on the ground floor. He almost shouted his pleasure.
He took one step towards the door, it was ajar, he entered,
he slipped inside; at first he did not see much, he could hear
discussions, much talk, a dull roar.
Then he noticed, he saw that many people were there; it was
a large office and in it were ten, fifteen, perhaps twenty or more
people, some talking, some moving about with papers, others
without, some speaking on the telephone.
For a while he stood in a corner; they had seen him but it
was as though they had not, as though he were the invisible man;
no one paid attention to him.
He went and asked someone, he said he had come for the position, the man said he knew nothing about it.
He went and asked someone else who told him to ask the man
sitting by the window.
He went and asked the man sitting by the window, the man
was reading something, he paid no attention, none whatsoever;
a few seconds went by like this, not really seconds, hours rather,
at long last the man looked up half-heartedly, "I'm listening,"
he said.
First he cracked his knuckles. Then he said, "I wanted to tell
you, I came for the position, the position you advertise."
"Oh, yes, the position," said the man, and he shouted, "This
gentleman has come for the position!"
Suddenly the office became still, entirely still, the noise
84
THE CHARIOTEER
changed to silence, utter silence. And everyone approached him,
all those ten, fifteen, twenty or more people. He felt their eyes
fixed on him, looking him over, examining him as if they had
stuck him under a microscope; he felt his entire body tingling,
itching, because of all those looks.
"So then, the position," said the man sitting by the window.
"You have your diploma?"
"Yes, Athens High School Number 2."
"All right. What else?"
"What else?"
"Accounting? Typing?"
He tried to say something, his throat was on fire, he was
itching all over, the others kept looking at him, like a strange
animal
"Well?"
"Well, well, I know accounting, not very well."
"Typing?"
"Typing, too. Oliver and ... and Royal typewriters. Not very
well."
"Anything else?"
"Anything else?"
"Languages? English?"
"Ah, yes, English. Not very well."
The man sitting by the window toyed with a letter-opener
for a moment, then he picked up the document he had been reading earlier.
"So, that's it," he said, and he clacked his tongue while toying
with the letter-opener.
He understood that he was losing the game, he became
panicky, he looked at the man sitting by the window, he looked
at the other ten, fifteen, twenty or more people who kept staring
at him in silence, without any expression on their faces. Those
stares made his whole body itch, the itch and the panicky feeling
that he was losing the game terrorized him.
"And the Lord's Prayer!" he shouted. "And the Lord's Prayer!
I know it very well! I know the Lord's Prayer very well! I know
it very well ! Very well !"
He could not possibly tell where precisely he wandered after
The Jungle
85
"0. E. Iplixian and Son." He wandered aimlessly in the streets,
not knowing where he was going, or why. It was shortly before
noon that he found himself passing the church, somewhere in
downtown Athens, where exactly he could not tell, his mind was
hazy.
If he stopped outside the church, it was because of the cars.
One car followed another; some stopped with a jolt. The people
who came out of them went hurriedly up the marble stairs.
He was about to cross the street when he stopped. He looked
at the cars through cloudy eyes. He could hear chanting from
within.
He stepped forward. On a corner lamp-post he saw an announcement for a funeral, freshly glued. He read it, he tried to
read it. It was a memorial service, a service in progress right
then, for a retired general. He was unable to read the rest of
the text.
He leaned against the post. Another c.ar arrived, followed by
another. People were still coming from the cars, going up the
stairs hurriedly. He could still hear the chanting.
As he stood against the post, a thought came to him: he, too,
would go into the church, to the service, of course, not for the
general, but for the kollyva*. Yes, he would go in and get some
kollyva; he'd take as much as he could.
He would go in and get some kollyva, but what about the
stairs? He started to count the steps: one, two, three, four, five.
Somewhere in the vicinity of eleven or twelve he lost count. He
could not go on counting, he had this dizziness, this cloud inside
his brain.
But the service would end, others would get the kollyva. He
had to try, to make the effort to go inside.
With a desperate effort he left the support of the lamp-post,
crossed the street, got to the bottom of the great stairs. He
grabbed the left hand-rail, closed his eyes so that the sight of
the many steps would not make him dizzy; he began to climb,
slowly, slowly.
*
Kollyva = sugar-coated, boiled wheat with ra1sms, nuts, and pomegranate seeds offered at Greek Orthodox memorial services.
86
THE CHARIOTEER
The first thing he noticed upon entering the church was that
he could see nothing. It was dark, and his eyes were hurting
from sunlight and exhaustion.
He stood near the door, against the door; the chanting went
on. A hot, a nasty heat brought out the smell of sweat.
Gradually he began to distinguish things. The services were
attended by many people, a crowd.
Then he looked at the kollyva. It was entrusted to two girls,
near the table which held the candles, and the girls were setting
up the little bags.
Where he stood was a good place for the kollyva. He would
be among the first to go to the table, he would stretch out his hand,
and he would help himself more than once; it was imperative that
he should get more than one bag!
Suddenly the chanting stopped, all became quiet, except for
some sobs, and even they were subdued, as though they were
choking someone or some people.
"It's ending!" he thought. "It's ending, now for the kollyva!"
He tried to see if there was a general movement towards the
exit - nothing!
By the table, two churchwardens and a fat bishop were talking
in whispers, but he caught bits of the conversation.
"You should have asked for advance payment!" said the
bishop. "This is a church, not a philanthropic institution. What's
this place? An almshouse? First and foremost, the rights of the
church!"
"It was an oversight, Your Reverence! We apologize," said
one of the churchwardens. "We'll pad their bill and that will
take care of the difference. Moreover, this is a first-class service;
therefore, there's some elasticity."
"Good thinking, my friend!" said the bishop. "My boy, you
should have been a banker."
At that moment, a fat man with gold-rimmed glasses went
up the lower steps of the bishop's throne. He took some pages
from his pocket, his handkerchief, too, and wiped his perspiration.
"General! We shall never forget you, our comrade-at-arms
and our friend!" he started to read. "On this day, on this bitter
day, on this four . . . fourteenth, fortieth day service, it is my
sad honor, General, to pronounce, never-to-be-forgotten General..."
Tke Jungle
87
"It's the big speech," he heard someone say.
"To pronounce, General, a few words,'' continued the speaker,
and again he wiped his handkerchief across his face drenched
in perspiration. "General! All of us, right here, right now, we're
standing at attention. We are all standing at attention before the
presence of your soaring soul. Because we are all standing at
attention before your soul as though we were, at this very moment, before the Blue and White,'* The Blue and White, my
General. Because at this very moment your beautiful soul is
soaring among us, your beautiful, white soul, your beautiful,
white, white, blue and white soul!"
The man wiped his sweat again with his handkerchief.
He wanted to be able to get one little bag of kollyva, even
a single one would do, and to get out, out in the fresh air, he
felt nauseated in there, but the man with the speech was n.ot
about to finish.
"My General! I confess that at this very moment I do not
feel, I do not feel, I confess that I don't feel well at all, my
General!" cried the man.
"It's the heat," someone said.
"Yet, my General, it is my duty to hold out to the end, as
befits your old comrade-at-arms. Hold out to the end. And this
handkerchief, this handkerchief, my General, soaked by tears."
Again he wiped his sweat; then he wrung out his handkerchief
over the heads of the others.
The man with the speech was not about to finish. He would
not yield easily; he would hold out to the end. He had to resist,
he used all his strength to resist, the kollyva were there, on
the table.
"Let me round off my speech and exclaim: General! Brave
General! Forever brave! Always on horseback, always brave you
took part in all the campaigns. On horseback and charging, always
charging, you will also participate in this new campaign: Operation Eternity!"
He did not expect the man to finish so abruptly; hardly had
he uttered his last sentence than everyone started towards him,
towards the exit.
* Blue
and White = colors of the Greek flag.
88
THE CHARIOTEER
At last he would get his kollyva, he would go to the table and
get some, he would, but he did not have a chance. The crowd
overtook him. He could not understand how all this happened so
fast, how they isolated him. The General's relatives formed a single
queue at the table. Without realizing, he found himself at the
end of that line of relatives, the last one near the door, with all
the General's relatives to his right. All this happened very
quickly. At once the public began filing by to offer condolences.
He could neither understand how he had been pinned down there,
nor how the first person emerged from the crowd - a man whose
hand was sticky with sweat, who appeared before him and
energetically took his hand.
"My condolences. Sincere condolences !" the man said to him,
and again shook his hand in a sweaty clasp.
After him, immediately after him, came the second, the third,
the fourth, the fifth. And after them, all the other mourners
came by. One by one they took his hand and shook it, one by one
they went before him and shook his hand, and he could see the
baskets of kollyva emptying, emptying steadily. He could not
move from his place, they had cornered him, his fear was back,
his mind was cloudy, everything around him was cloudy.
"My condolences!" they would say constantly, and constantly
they shook his hand. "If you prefer a luxury funeral, of course,
our price changes," he heard one of the churchwardens say on
the telephone near the table, while the bishop followed the conversation and nodded his approval. "The price depends on the
client's wishes, if the client wants a luxury funeral or a first-class
funeral. Of course, we also have our premium. Of course, the
premium funeral costs more." The crowd was endless; "My condolences. Sincere condolences!" they would say constantly, and
constantly they shook his hand, and constantly he would hear the
churchwarden, "We have a fixed tariff, it depends on the client,"
"Condolences. Sincere condolences!" The kollyva were almost
gone. He would get nothing, nothing. Then he saw, facing him,
a little to the right, Christ on the Cross. He saw Him suddenly
standing out among all these people and among all those things
-"If the client prefers a premium funeral, then the price ... " said
the churchwarden. He looked again at Christ, Christ on the Cross,
facing him, a little to the right, he suddenly felt grief, deep
The Jungle
89
grief for the one facing him, a little to the right. "The tariff,
my dear sir," said the churchwarden, and the bishop nodded,
"Yes, yes." He felt grief, intense grief for the One facing him,
a little to the right. What was He doing here? He felt grief for
Him, he felt that this was his younger brother who had taken
the wrong road, and suddenly his eyes were bathed in tears,
"Condolences. I understand your grief!" said a tall fellow, energetically shaking his hand. His grief, of course, was for Him,_
for the One facing him, a little to the right; he felt that He was
a stranger there, a total stranger, that this, his younger brother,
among all those people and all those things had become involved
with the wrong crowd, that He had taken the wrong road.
THE MOTHER
translated by Katherine Hortis
It happened as she was pressing his trousers. His good ones.
His Sunday trousers. Just as she was using all her skill to get
the crease straight, there came, all out of breath-people said
she had asthma-the wife of the man who had the notion store
on the corner.
"How dreadful-at Kalogreza! Haven't you heard about it
yet?" the woman shouted from the street, having seen her through
the open window, ironing.
"No, I don't know what you're talking about. My John !"
"I don't know if John is in it. My sister-in-law just got me
on the telephone to tell me. That is, all the men working in the
arcade where the explosion happened were killed instantly."
Hearing these news, she left the hot iron on the trousers, just
as she struggled to get the crease perfect, because her John always
teased her: "Mom, you still didn't get the crease just right. Let's
see when you're going to decide to do it so I can tell you, 'Bravo'."
She left her ironing and ran to the window.
90
THE CHARIOTEER
"What else did you hear?" she asked. "Tell me, I'm going
crazy!"
"I don't know anything else," the notion-storekeeper's wife
assured her. "Whatever they told me on the telephone. They say
that the shift working two to ten o'clock was blown sky high.
The arcade exploded and crushed them. What shift did your
John work?"
"Two to ten," she said as if she were in a trance.
Just then somebody from the store shouted that some customers
were waiting.
"I'm going," the woman told her. "Be brave, maybe he escaped."
She went and pulled the ironing cord from the socket. The
trousers were burned in two places, but what did they matter
now? - All that mattered was, that John - her John, her only
son -this Saturday night, was on the two-to-ten shift.
She threw something over her shoulders. She looked at his
father's photograph. She hesitated. Should she talk to him,
should she tell him the news or not say a word? He looked back
at her, calm, smiling as if nothing had happened. The same calm
smile as he had turned and looked at her when the Germans
took him from the house in '44, August, the 11th - her John
had just started to toddle. He could not talk yet; he could only
say, "Papa," "Mama," "toot-toot." Then, their John became her
John. For the father never again crossed the threshold of their
home. He disappeared. They had taken him with others to Germany; Buchenwald, someone said; Dachau, someone else said.
What did it matter; people just disappeared.
1
. : : 1
•I
I
1
1
/
illj
/jJJiJJJ
She had to take three different kinds of transportation to
go from Perama to Kalogreza. She had to take the trolley from
Perama, get off the Piraeus subway station, take the subway
to Omonia Station, and from there the bus to Kalogreza.
She had gone there once before to find her John. It was
nothing bad on that occasion; it was about a year and a half ago
when John's uncle had passed through Piraeus, a first cousin of
the father. The uncle had lived many years in America, in a
city called Detroit. She had run to tell her John that his uncle
The Mother
91
would stay only a few hours in Piraeus and that when he left
his work in the evening he should go to meet him at the Hotel
Makedonikon, near the clock, second block to the left. At any
rate, since the uncle christened John, he surely would have some
splendid gift for his nephew. Twelve long years had passed from
the previous time he had travelled to Greece and then, too, in
great haste. The result: her John went to the Makedonikon; he
knocked himself out to get there an hour early, and his uncle
gave him a gift, some kind of gadget, something that opened
bottles. Her John had told her exactly what it was called, but
she could not manage to say it; her tongue always got twisted.
Now, she was going to meet her John with black foreboding
in her heart. She did not know what her eyes would see.
In her haste to leave, to run to his side, to arrive in timeto arrive in time for what?-she forgot to take a handkerchief.
She already had a cold, then there were her tears, and she became
very distressed that she had not taken her handkerchief. She
thought that everyone in the trolley and in the train was looking
at her when she had to wipe her nose from time to time and
her eyes with the corner of her shawl.
"If I had the wings of a bird," she murmured to herself over
and over again-the song she loved when she was young, when
her home did not have the picture of the father but the father
himself. She could hardly wait for the moment when she would
arrive at that cursed Kalogreza. As the train left Monastiraki
for Omonia, she said aloud, absent-mindedly, "If I were a bird
so I could fly ..••"
"Why don't you leave us alone, woman, with your infernal
murmuring," said the man sitting beside her, the man with the
little black bow-tie and the bulging black bag that he held in
his arms as if it were a baby.
She shrank into her corner and she was so upset that he
had rebuked her that she did not realize the train had passed
Omonia Station and the stop after it. Finally, she got off at
Attiki Station.
She started uphill toward Patission, stopping once in a while
to catch her breath. She had suffered with shortness of breath
for years. She had to be near him as quickly as possible; her
John was waiting for her.
92
THE CHARIOTEER
She counted the change in her little purse, to see if she had
enough for a taxi. She had 11.60 drachmas in all.
At Ameriki Square there were plenty of taxis. She asked what
the run to Kalogreza would cost. "I have 11.60," she told the
taxi driver, softly, as if she had done something wicked.
"No," he said. It was not enough; there was a double tariff
-that's what raised the fare.
She stopped, wondering what to do.
"Well," she said; "If we go there and John pays?"
"John?" the driver said.
"My son," she answered and looked at him with a kind of
surprise that he did not know who John was.
"That's different," the driver agreed and opened the door.
She started to enter the taxi. She had one foot in, then
stopped.
"If my John .. ," she said to herself and suddenly withdrew
from the taxi and clutched her shawl around her. The thought,
"If my John ..." made her heart, her legs, grow ice cold.
"Never mind," she told the driver. "I'll go by bus." She walked
away into the night.
It was so calm when she reached the lignite mine that for
a moment she thought that perhaps there had been a mistake,
that the telephone call may have been for something else, not for
an accident at Kalogreza. Everything was quiet and was covered
with the fine night dew of winter. As she passed the enclosure,
she saw many people and policemen talking near a hangar,
and many cars were parked nearby, their red lights gleaming, and
she saw women and children. Why, she thought, had she not
noticed all these sooner?
She approached. Her heart was tied in a knot.
She stopped before a workman who was all bloody, whose
wife kept hugging him while he tried to explain.
"My John?" she asked as she passed between an officer and
a man in civilian clothes who was smoking continuously.
They asked for the last name; in the two-to-ten shift there
were five workmen with the name "John." When she gave the
last name, she received no reply. All those strangers only turned
The Mother
93
and looked at her, and she noticed that the wife of the workman
who had escaped hugged him more closely, more desperately.
"My John," she repeated. Fortunately, the officer reached out
in time; otherwise she would have fallen in a heap to the ground.
No, she did not have the strength to endure the night without
her John. Her hope now, her only hope, was to find him at the
morgue-if she were lucky enough to find him there-to hug him,
to fold him in her arms, to warm him closely to her as the wife
of the workman who had escaped.
When they told her that her John may have gone to the
morgue, that perhaps he had been taken there, her heart jumped.
Ah, if only that miracle were true! If only her John had escaped
from the depth of the cold earth! If only the earth had not
swallowed him, alone, unwept, unwashed, without incense! If
only she would find him there, to take him home, to wash him,
change his clothes, dress him in his best, his Sunday best-the
grey-green jacket and trousers she had freshly ironed, the crease
perfect for the first time-as for the burn, she knew how to
darn it so that nothing would show.
Then, she, herself would take her John, tomorrow, Sunday
afternoon, in his Sunday best, as when he was a little boy and
she used to take him for a walk every Sunday afternoon. Now,
again, she would take him for a walk; but this time she would
return alone to her little home. Tomorrow, Sunday, at dusk,
alone, all alone - tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, alone,
and forever.
Her John was not in the first group. He was not among the
eight who had escaped. 'l.'here was a report of the eight; the
Sergeant had the list and he read it to her, each name slowly as
if he were calling a roll. The shift had another ten men; totaleighteen. Of the ten who had not escaped, four were already at
the morgue. The other six were at the bottom of the arcade, in
a heap, in the bowels of the earth, crushed into a substance without life and without tomorrow.
"Your son, at any rate, is not among the living," the Sergeant
said. "He's among the ... he's among the others. Go and see if
he's not one of the four at the morgue. They were taken in a
hurry and I didn't have a chance to put their names on my list.
If he's not among the four, uh, he's among the six who were
94
THE CHARIOTEER
buried at the bottom, when the arcade collapsed. We don't know
how many days it'll take to dig them up-three, five, ten, maybe.
Maybe, never."
"From Kalogreza ?" said one of the two guards at the morgue,
the taller one, the fellow who had a small transistor and was
scanning it for a program. "There, we have them there - second
corridor to the right, first door to the left."
She stopped and looked at him. She looked at the other guard,
too, waiting to see if they would take her there. She had never
been in a morgue.
"Go along yourself!" the taller man said. "What are you looking at? We did our job, we laid them out one by one, we even
covered them with sheets. Ha, I think that's plenty, considering
the lousy pay the government gives us. We get just enough to
cover them, not to uncover them as well, every once a while."
He flared up when he remembered his pay, turned on the
transistor to full volume, and the naked room was invaded by
a mad "shake" tune.
"Not so loud!" his colleague said.
"Why? Are you afraid I'm disturbing our customers?" the
first man said and turned again to her, harshly. "We two have
said whatever we have to say: second corridor right, first door
to the left."
She went alone. She had a terrible sinking feeling in her chest.
"Hey, woman!" the tall guard shouted as she was turning into
the central corridor. "Open the door and walk right in. You don't
need to knock. O.K.?"
She opened the door the guard had indicated: second corridor
right, first door to the left.
She expected the door to creak. She felt at that moment that
the door of a morgue always creaked. It opened quietly. It did
not creak or make any sound.
There were many tables in the room, high, long, narrow tables.
Only four were occupied with the four dead men of Kalogreza.
"It must be uncomfortable up there," she thought.
The room was gloomy. The light, one small light, was a dingy
yellow.
She moved nearer to them. From whom should she begin?
She stopped; it was as if she were about to draw a lottery ticket.
The Mother
95
Finally, she went to the table by the wall.
No, the first one was not her John. Slowly, as if she were
ashamed, she drew back the sheet and uncovered the head. She
did not need to see the face; she saw the hair-blond, very blond.
Her John was dark.
No, the second one was not her John. The second one had a
mustache. Her John had no mustache.
The third? Perhaps he was her John, but the face was disfigured and she could not say yes or no. The size of the body was
like her John's. She stopped a while, looking at the face and then
she looked at the feet. She withdrew the sheet and touched the
left shoe - they all wore the same army boots. She pulled the shoe
off with all her might; it would not come off easily. Again, she
pulled and she almost fell backward as it came off. Then she removed the sock. No, not her John. Her John was missing a middle
toe; a firework blast had cut it off when he was about ten years
old - Holy Saturday, Easter night.
And the fourth? She did not need to look for long: the fourth
had a mustache.
Then she felt her knees give way; there was no chair in the
room. She struggled on to the table of the fourth and sat by his
feet. Just as she had made herself comfortable on the table there,
she saw the foot of the third body whose shoe and sock she had
taken off and had left bare.
"He must be cold," she thought.
She slid down from the table, she put on his sock and shoe
and she straightened his sheet neatly.
She heard a clock strike - a church clock? She counted the
strokes from one to two, to three, to ten, to eleven, to twelve.
"Midnight," she thought but at the same moment she counted
to thirteen.
"I never knew that the clock goes up to thirteen," she said
aloud. "When did they change the system of clocks? Ah, well,
every day they change something in out little Greece."
She sneezed and said, "Excuse, please." That is what she
always said if she sneezed among people. Now there were people
in the room with her; there were the four workmen who lay
on the long, narrow tables. There was no one else, no dead
strangers, in the room - only the four men from Kalogreza.
96
THE CHARIOTEER
Her John was not among the four. She had uncovered them,
one by one. She had studied them closely. The light was not
strong, but she had looked at them well. Her John did not have
the luck to be among the four. So her John had remained in
the bowels of the earth. Her John had become another piece of
coal among all the other pieces of coal down there.
How long she was in the room with the four men she could
not say - half an hour? An hour?
She climbed on the table of the third. Strange, her tears had
dried. She had no more tears, only the sniffles-and she had no
handkerchief. How could she have forgotten to take her handkerchief! She began to wipe her nose on the edge of her shawl. but
she was ashamed. The four of them were looking at her; she had
left their faces uncovered, their eyes . . . . She lifted the sheet and
searched the third man's pockets and found a handkerchief; it
was all wrinkled and darned in two places.
"His mother must have darned it," she said to herself.
She blew her nose on it and put it into her pocket. Ah, doesn't
she always take pains to wash and iron and darn her John's
handkerchiefs! His mother . . . their mother ....
As the time passed and she had the four around her, she felt
closer to them, closer and closer. They had no one there; their
mothers were not with them. But she was there, wasn't she?
At first she thought she was dreaming-a dream of many
people crowding around her and they had notebooks and pencils
and were writing, writing. But it was not a dream. When she
opened her eyes-she had fallen asleep on the table-she saw
many people with notebooks and pencils. There were six or seven
strangers around her.
She came down from the table; her dress almost caught on
a nail.
"Is there no one here?" one of these people said loudly.
"I am."
Then they all came around her.
"We are reporters," said one.
"We came to see the victims of Kalogreza," said another.
"You, who are you?" one asked.
The Mother
97
"Me? Their mother."
"Their mother?"
"Ah, their mother!"
"But are they all your sons?"
"My sons."
The reporters continued writing: "Unprecedented tragedy.
Mother loses all four sons."
"Their names?" asked one reporter.
She gathered her shawl around her; she went to the first of
the four dead men and looked into his eyes.
"My John," she said.
"The other?"
She went to the second and caressed his brow.
"My John," she said.
Then to the third and she lifted his hand that had slipped off
the table.
"My John," she said.
And to the fourth she went and straightened his hair that
had fallen across his eyes.
"My John."
98
THE CHARIOTEER
BOOKS RECEIVED
lmnos is tin Eleftheriian, Dhionysiu Solomou. Athinai. Anotati Scholi
Kal6n Techn6n, 1971. A distinguished, wonderfully printed, large 13x9.5
format edition of Solomos' "Hymn to Freedom" brought out by the Higher
School of Fine Arts in Athens on the opportunity of the 150th Anniversary
of the Greek War of Independence.
Nikiph6ros Vrettakos. Odhini. Ekdh6sis Syll6ghou Apophiton Hellenik6n
Panepistimion. Nea Yorki, 1969. 218 pp. An autobiography of the Greek
poet Vrettakos which reflects in its pages the Greek political and social
situation of the last fifty years, as well as the author's thoughts about
our world situation.
Pandelis Prevelakis. 0 Anghelos sto pighadhi. Athina. I Ekdh6sis ton
Philon, 1970. 188 pp. Another chronicle-novel by the prominent Greek
novelist. As all his several previous novels, this one also draws its inspiration from the life and culture of the author's native land, Crete. Another
accomplishment of his.
Kyriakos Ntel6poulos. Neohellenika Philologika Psevd6nyma. Athinai. Kolleghion Athinon, 1969. 104 pp. A very inclusive compendium-index of
the pen-names of modern Greek writers, alphabetically ordered, first under
their real, and second under their pen-names.
X. A. Kok6lis. P nakas lexeon ton piimaton tou Y 6rghou Se{eri. Thessaloniki, 1970. 102 pp. A most welcome Greek concordance covering the entire
body of Seferis' poetry, including also his recent "Three Secret Poems."
Katerina Angelaki-Rooke, Tassos Dheneghris et al. Eksi piites. Foreword
by Kimon Friar. Athina, 1971. 100 pp. An anthology of six younger Greek
"existential" poets who, at Kimon Friar's initiative, formed a poetic group
in Athens, the first such to exist in modern Greek letters. The other poets
included are Nana Issaia, Dhimitris Potamitis, Lefteris Poulios and Vassilis Steryadhis. All six of them are most gifted new lyrical voices full
of promise.
D. P. Papadhitsas. Opos o Endhymion. Athina, Proti Ili, 1970. A new collection of poems by the distinguished poet of the Greek 40's, where his
lyrical art, with its mystical qualities, reaches new heights.
Philologhiki Kypros. Tou Hellenikou Pnevmatikou Omilou Kyprou. Lefkosia, 1970. 220 pp. Despite all its national and political adventures, hardships, and afflictions, Greek Cyprus never stops being intellectually and
creatively active. This annual edition has a wealth of material in it, articles, studies, new poems, among them a study of Papadhiamandis by
Professor Kostas Proussis, a study of Seferis' "Helen" by K. Vassiliou, and
Alexios I and the Crusaders, a five short-act play by Dr. Kypros Chrysanthis.
99
Books Received
Kypros Chrysanthis. Pez6s L6ghos. Lefkosia, 1971. 276 pp. After the
publication in 1968 of his Lyrikos Loghos, a 478-page sumptuous volume of
the lyrical poetry he wrote from 1934 to 1968, the outstanding, indefatigable, and most prolific Cypriot poet, author and critic brings into this
volume four novellas he wrote as inspired from mediaeval Cyprus.
C. P. Cavafy: Passions and Ancient Days. New Poems Translated and
Introduced by Edmund Keeley and George Savidis. The Dial Press, 1971.
From the seventy-five "unpublished" poems of Cavafy included in the
Anekdhota Piimata edited by Savidis and published by Ikaros in 1968,
Edmund Keeley and Savidis himself selected and translated twenty for
this bilingual edition. We can only say the best about these translations
and the way they are presented.
Andonis Decavalles
Past issues of THE CHARIOTEER
are available
The following volumes may be purchased at $3 each; any
four numbers for $10:
No.3
Excerpts of Pope Joan by Emmanuel Royidis
Poetry by Takis Papatzonis and I. M. Panayotopoulos
Sculpture by Michael Tombros
No.4
Excerpts of Novels and a Play by Anghelos Terzakis
Seven short stories by six pioneers
Paintings by Spyros Vassiliou
No.5
Excerpts of Novels and a Play by George Theotokas
Greek Castles-Essays by Photis Kontoglou
Paintings by Photis Kontoglou
Greek Demotic Songs
No.6
Poems by George Seferis
Excerpts of Novels by Thanassis Petsalis
Philoctetes, A Modern Version, by David Posner
Paintings by Gounaropoulos
Nos. 7/8, Double Issue
An Anthology of Cypriot Poetry, Prose and Art
No.9
A Selection of Poems by George Seferis
for the first time in English, translated and introduced
by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrad
Excerpts from Smugglers of the Aegean by Yannis Manglis
Short Stories
Sculpture by Christos Kapralos
No. 10
Thirteen Poets of Salonika
The Art of Jannis Spyropoulos
Cavafy's A rs Poetica
Critical Essays
The following double issue is available for $5.00:
No. 11/12
An Anthology of Kosmas Politis
The Sculpture of Ikaris
All eight volumes: $20.
THE CHARIOTEER
Box 2928 Grand Central Station, New York, N.Y. 10017